


Phaedrus

by Airomi



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Coming of Age, Eventual References to Timeskip Canon Elements, F/M, First Love Gone Wrong, Focus on Personal Growth, Here's to the Underdogs, Keeping Spoiler-y Things As Vague As Possible, Mentions of Gaslighting, OCs integral to story, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, a year in the life, more seriouskawa but also still trashykawa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:34:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 123,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22027894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Airomi/pseuds/Airomi
Summary: On temporary hiatus - thank you for your patience!“Things are not always as they seem. The first appearance deceives many; the intelligence of a few perceives what has been carefully hidden.”- Phaedrus, Roman fabulistIn which you have a year to figure out the multifaceted mystery that is Oikawa Tooru.In which you have a year to find yourself again.In which you have a year to fall in love.A year of disappointments and revelations.
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru/Reader
Comments: 564
Kudos: 611





	1. Face Value

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“People are guests in our story, the same way we are guests in theirs. But we all meet each other for a reason because every person is a personal lesson waiting to be told.”_ \- Lauren Klarfeld

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First time writing anything (let alone fanfiction) in literal years and my first upload on ao3 oh man I am ~sweating~. I have a general frame of how I want this story to go and have written a few chapters so far, so I am taking the plunge and posting! Please enjoy my ramblings and overly descriptive writing (sorry).

“Please, (Name)-chan, please please please please _please_ –”

It’s only five minutes into lunch and you find yourself sighing for the twentieth time, suppressing the urge to run a hand down your face. Sato Momoko looks at you with an unwavering gaze, lips pressed into a firm, determined line. Her chopsticks look like they are about to snap in her hand, and you are seriously starting to wonder if you need to help your best friend rearrange her list of life priorities. “Momo-chan, why do you want to go so bad?” you ask, exasperated. “It’s just a volleyball game, right? I get that you’re a big fan, but still…”

“What do you mean _‘It’s just a volleyball game’_? It’s a huge deal!” Momo narrows her eyes. You can’t help but feel a little off-put by her slightly accusatory tone. “We’re in our third year, (Name)-chan. This will be the Last First Official Practice Volleyball Match of our high school careers!” She sighs dramatically. You know that her disappointment is completely unironic. Of all things to get so worked up about, she chooses a _practice volleyball match_?

“‘Last First Official Practice Volleyball Match of our high school careers,’” you repeat slowly, hoping she realizes how trivial the statement sounds. The brunette nods vigorously, and you sigh again. “Okay, so it’s important,” you concede, the silent _to you_ implied. “Why are you so adamant about _me_ going? You’ve been fine attending these things without me for the past two years. Is there something special about this particular one—other than, you know, it being the last first official whatever one?”

Momo leans towards you conspiratorially, eyes flashing. “Rumor has it that Oikawa-kun will be playing.”

Ah, so _that’s_ the reason. Oikawa Tooru: captain, star athlete, and heartthrob of Aoba Johsai Private High School. Known for his alleged ability on the court (you’ve never been to a game, so how would you really know?) and devastatingly good looks. You can always tell where he is by the small gaggle of girls trailing after. You understand the allure.

And you avoid it like the plague.

“I thought he normally played,” you muse.

“Normally yes, but he’s been out the first few week of school because he injured his leg. Poor him.” She pouts and misses the flat look you give her. “But my sources say he’s in good shape now, and is ready to jump back in at any moment. How cool would it be if his first time back on the court is at the Last First Official Practice Volleyball Match of our high school careers?!” You can practically see the hearts in her eyes.

“You gotta stop calling it that…” you mutter, but you’re ignored—Momo is too into her own thoughts. “So it’s good that he’s alive and kicking,” you start, waving a hand to catch your friend’s attention, “but again, what does _me_ being there have to do with anything?”

And suddenly Momo starts to blush, wiggling in her seat. You refrain from deadpanning. “I-I don’t want to be _that_ fangirl—”

“—you sure about that—”

“—but I _really_ want a picture with him!” she blurts out. “I’ve been trying to muster the courage, but always get so nervous even though he seems _so_ kind and patient with everyone—”

“Oh my God, this is actually happening—”

“—and it’s our last year, which means I’m running out of time!” Momo practically wails. She sets her face into a determined frown as she clenches her fists again. “But I won’t wait any longer! I am determined to get my picture today!”

You can’t contain your deadpan anymore. As is tradition, she ignores your nonverbal cues; after all these years of friendship, you still can’t tell if it’s deliberate or not. “You’re serious,” you question, though it’s more of a statement. “ _That’s_ why you need me to come? Why can’t you ask one of the other girls to take it for you?”

“No! It has to be you. Anyone else and I’d be too embarrassed—”

“ _Momo-chan,_ ” you whine, sighing heavily.

“ _(Name)-chan_ ” is her response, using your same tone.

“You know you can just ask him for a picture at, I don’t know, _any_ time? Like go ask him right now!” You wave towards the classroom door. “We’re all on lunch break. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind—”

“No! He needs no interruptions. He needs to eat as much as he can.”

You can tell she’s very serious. “ _Momo_ —”

“I’m just stating facts; athletes have to eat a lot!” your best friend argues, pouting again. She contemplates for a moment, face turning sheepish as she scratches the back of her head. “Besides,” she mumbles, “there’s something _really_ cool about the way he looks in his volleyball uniform. If I’m going to get a picture, I want it to be _just right_.” She gives you an OK sign, winking.

 _Has her Fangirl Mode gotten worse, or has it always been like this?_ you wonder. You look up at Momo’s hopeful gaze, and for the millionth time today, you sigh, finally relenting to her request. “What’s in it for me?” you query.

“You’ll have my undying love forever—”

“I already have that. Also even if I didn’t, that’s not convincing enough,” you retort. Momo’s pout deepens, and she crosses her arms.

“Fine. Ice cream post-picture, my treat.”

“And a coffee tomorrow morning, fresh when you meet me to walk to school.”

“You drive a hard bargain,” states Momo with a grin, sticking out her hand, “but I accept your terms because you’re my best friend. Just know otherwise I’d say no.”

You return her grin, clasping her palm in your own. “Then you wouldn’t get your picture, would you?”

She huffs, withdrawing her hand. “Touché, (Name)-chan.”

“You’re so stubborn,” you murmur, smirking as she chokes on a mouthful of rice.

Her dark gray eyes narrow unmenacingly. “I like to call it determined, thank you very much.” She takes a few bites of rice. “By the way, you should avoid coffee. Makes your breath stinky in the morning. The guy next to me in class always brings a coffee, and whenever we have to work together, I want to die.”

“Stubborn _and_ dramatic!” you say, laughing good-naturedly. Momo grins.

“Makes you wonder why I’m single, eh?”

* * *

You rest your chin on your palm as you lean against the railing of the gym mezzanine, eyes glazed over in boredom. Momo stands beside you, hands gripped tightly on the fencing. You can see the fire in her eyes as she watches the game below. You have to hand it to her—unlike most fangirls, at least she actually seems to enjoy and understand volleyball.

You’re glad that she is enjoying her Last First Official Practice Volleyball Match of her high school career. Too bad the same can’t be said for you.

In principle, volleyball seems pretty straightforward: hit the ball to the other side of the net in order to score points, and whoever reaches 25 first wins. But like any sport, there are specific rules that need to be followed to avoid fouls and penalties, and that’s where you start getting lost. You’re sure that the most basic of rules aren’t anything too crazy, but you find that your lack of care inhibits you from attempting to learn the nuances that makes the game fun for viewers.

The only thing amusing that happened so far was when the short redhead on the other team—Torino?—accidentally hit that angry one in the back of the head with the ball. You won’t admit this to Momo (if you did, you’re sure she’d bite your head off because _school spirit_ ), but you find yourself actually sort of rooting for the visiting team.

It’s obvious that they are super unpolished, but they have some interesting players who you can’t help but find kind of charming. There’s that shaved-head guy who looks ready to pick a fight or rip off his shirt at any moment (or maybe both?); Tall Glasses Guy looks _super_ done with everything, and seems like the textbook definition of Salt-Master Supreme; and then, of course, they have that baby redhead who you’re pretty sure is still secretly a middle schooler. Unlike the bird team, your school’s team seems serious, borderline menacing. It’s not a bad thing, of course—in fact, it’s probably _good_ —but the lack of quirkiness is making it really hard for you to really care what’s going on on that side of the court.

The whistle sounds again and you look toward the scoreboard, frowning at the steadily rising numbers. “They’re almost three games in, and he’s still not here,” you comment to Momo, looking at her sidelong. “You’re sure your source was good?”

“Three sets, not games. There are usually two or three sets in one match. The game is almost done,” corrects Momo, ignoring your shrug. “And I’m not sure… my source seemed super confident. She could have been wrong, but I don’t know…” There’s a small pause before Momo sighs, saying, “At least it’s interesting, right? They’re neck-and-neck.”

 _Are they?_ “Riveting,” you respond, and you don’t know if she catches the light sarcasm in your tone. You look around the top floor of the gym. There are quite a few spectators, mostly girls. Looks like Momo isn’t the only one who heard the rumor. “I don't think he's going to show,” you say, turning back to the conversation at hand. You see your friend’s face fall, and you can’t help but feel a little sympathetic. “Sorry, Momo-chan. Maybe he’ll be at the next one—”

Your words are drowned out by a sudden wave of high-pitched squealing. You jump, startled at the noise. Based on their reactions, Torino is also taken aback; Seijoh, on the other hand, seems completely unbothered, if not a bit annoyed (the latter of which you notice especially on the spiky-haired player wearing Jersey #1). Momo leans precariously over the edge, and you grab the back of her uniform vest as a precaution. Milliseconds later she joins in the screaming. You pull her back from the railing.

“Oikawa-kun~!” she shouts, struggling against your hold to try to still lean over. Her face is as bright as a Christmas tree. She practically melts into a puddle when Oikawa calmly turns and waves.

You see that Momo isn’t the only one afflicted. It’s as if the whole mezzanine took one collective, swoony sigh; even some of the boys look enraptured. You’re amazed at the effect a simple smile has. Jersey #1 grumbles something at Oikawa, and the brunette goes to chat with the coach. The roar of support diminishes into hushed chatter, the upper floor of the gym buzzing excitedly.

“Isn’t Oikawa-kun just so cool?” Momo asks you, interlocking your arm with hers. Down below, the atmosphere has shifted back to serious. The Torino team seems to have collected themselves from the initial shock of the interruption, though Shaved-Head Guy looks even _more_ determined to pick a fight now. _Are fights allowed in volleyball?_ you wonder idly.

“He hasn’t done anything yet,” you murmur in response to her question. Momo pinches your arm.

“Just wait,” she states confidently, smirking at you.

So you wait.

And wait.

And wait.

“He’s _still_ not doing anything,” you say, voice flat. Oikawa is on the far end of the gymnasium, stretching. You wonder if he’s deliberately taking his time for show. “He’s taking forever. At this rate, the game will be done before he even gets on the court.” You point to the scoreboard. Torino is at 23 points.

“Give him time, (Name)-chan—he needs to warm up properly in order to avoid hurting himself.”

The whistle chimes again; another point for the birds. “Looks like it’s check point,” you comment. Momo quickly corrects your terminology and you nod noncommittally, turning to grab your school bag. _At least the other team was funny_ , you think. “Alright, now that that’s done, let’s get you your picture and go—”

Momo holds out a hand and you pause. She quickly points back down to the court, and you walk back to the railing. Oikawa is talking to the coach again, this time donning a neon lime-green practice jersey. An easy smile is on his face as he looks toward one of Torino’s players—the angry one that the middle schooler hit—and waves. You can’t hear what he says, but based on the tense looks on the opposing team’s faces, it was either something snarky or intimidating.

“Looks I was wrong,” you state. “Guess he _is_ going to play. Too bad it’s just for one point.”

Momo laughs, and you blink at her. “It won’t just be one,” she tells you with a smirk. You purse your lips.

Momo joins in on the chorus of cheers as Oikawa grabs the ball, bouncing it lightly as he makes his way to the back of the court. There is something so blasé about his manner; it’s as if he has no competitive bone in his body and doesn’t care that Seijoh is about to lose. You find it weird that the _captain_ of all people is the one that seems like he’d just be fine with a participation ribbon.

You open your mouth to say this to Momo when suddenly the mood in the room shifts. The air becomes thicker, almost oppressive. All the members on Torino’s team are suddenly on-edge, eyes locked onto Oikawa. The easy-going ambience around the brunette has morphed into something menacing and serious. A chill shoots down your spine.

Oikawa serves, and your eyes widen. The shot is fast—the fastest you’ve seen all game—and aimed directly at Glasses Guy. The ball smashes into his arms, and you can see the blonde visibly wince at the impact. The ball goes flying, ricocheting off the railing and narrowly missing two spectators. Momo grabs your arm again, squeezing tightly as she swoons with the other fangirls. You blink in surprise. _That accuracy at that speed…_ you muse. _Is that normal? But I haven’t seen that from anyone else this whole time… Was it just a fluke?_

Oikawa’s second serve proves that it wasn’t. He aims again at the tall blonde; the ball careens off to the side after hitting Glasses Guy’s arms. You guess that the talk about his talent on the court is, in fact, true.

The score is now 23-24. Two points alone were scored by that powerful serve of Oikawa’s. As Torino shuffles their defensive positions, obviously realizing what they have right now won’t work against Seijoh’s captain, you ask Momo, “What happens when they tie? Whoever gets to 25 first wins?”

“It will be a deuce,” Momo explains. “In volleyball, you need to have a two-point lead in order to win the set. Since both teams have won one each, it’s anyone’s game right now.” She shrugs. “We’ve been doing really well so far without Oikawa-kun—our team is strong without him. But he is what brings us from great to Top Four in Miyagi. And this is just his serve.” You don’t really know what her last comment means, but you decide to just stay silent, eyes flickering back to the court. This is the most interested you’ve been in the game; the realization surprises you slightly.

Oikawa’s third serve goes much better for Torino, thanks to their new positioning. He still goes after Glasses Guy, but the serve is slower than before to account for the blonde’s new place near the sideline. There is some back-and-forth, and then the game ends once the small redhead smashes the ball down with impressive speed. The whistle sounds for the final time, and Momo sighs in disappointment as the teams line up to bow to each other.

“Man, so close!” she groans. “Obviously not the results we wanted, but a good game nonetheless. Though if Oikawa-kun had been there from the start, I’m sure that a third set wouldn’t have been needed.” Your friend shrugs, turning to look at you with a smile. “Pretty impressive, huh? Not to mention so totally cool~”

Momo continues to chatter incessantly as the two of you follow the small crowd to exit the mezzanine. You’re only half-listening. You turn your head to look at Glasses Guy, watching as his freckled friend panics over the state of the former’s arms. You can see angry red welts blooming on the inside of his forearms; there will be some nasty bruises there in a few hours. You find yourself subconsciously rubbing your own arms.

Looks like you were wrong about the participation ribbon.

* * *

There’s already a decent-sized crowd surrounding Oikawa by the time you and Momo make it over. Seeing the blatant adoration makes your stomach twist uncomfortably; but as much as you want to leave, you know that if Momo doesn’t get her photo now, you will just have to go through this same process at a later date. And this is _way_ too troublesome to do a second time.

Plus you really want your ice cream now.

You nudge your friend forward as she hesitates, hand out for her to pass you her phone. As Momo makes her way towards the edge of the circle, you observe. Oikawa’s tall frame towers over his entourage, same easy smile as before plastered on his face as he laughs and talks and accepts gifts and takes pictures—standard heartthrob stuff. He seems to absorb the nervous energy and blatant adoration from his fans like a plant, beaming brighter with each compliment handed to him.

Your stomach feels a little queasy again.

You can tell that Oikawa is used to this behavior and is efficient at managing a crowd. Pretty soon the numbers dwindle, and it’s just Momo and a nervous pigtailed second year left. You take a step forward, tapping Momo’s passcode into her phone to prep for The Fateful Encounter.

Suddenly a figure appears from the gym’s doors, radiating a menacing aura as he views the scene. It’s the angry spiky-haired guy who was wearing Jersey #1 in the practice match. He storms toward the small group, muttering under his breath loud enough that you can catch a few words—“stupid,” “slacker,” and “arrogant bastard” being used multiple times. Momo and the other girl immediately shrink back as they notice the pissed-off player’s approach, small squeaks of surprised fear emitting from their throats. Oikawa, on the other hand, doesn’t seem affected; either he’s oblivious to the looming threat making a beeline toward him, or he’s ignoring it altogether.

Spiky Hair pulls the volleyball from under his arm and throws it hard, hitting Oikawa square in the back of the head. The two fangirls squeal “Oikawa-kun!” as the captain’s head snaps forward from the force. Your eyebrows raise in surprise.

“ _Oi_ , you!” shouts the new guy, pointing a finger accusingly at Oikawa. “Don’t think you can skip cleanup!”

Oikawa turns to look at his teammate, teary as he rubs the back of his head. “I’m not!” he shouts back. “I just got held up a bit.” Behind the tall brunette, Momo and Pigtails look as if they’re about to cry.

“Whatever,” mutters Spiky Hair, eyes narrowed. You can tell he wants to say more, but you have a feeling he’s refraining due to present company. “Let’s go,” he says, jerking his head toward the gymnasium. His tone leaves no room for argument, and he turns to walk away without waiting.

Oikawa sighs softly before turning to face the two girls. “Sorry,” he apologizes. “Another time.” He gives a small wave and turns to follow his teammate.

Momo looks at you tearfully, steel-colored eyes reflecting her sheer disappointment. It’s then you realize if he leaves, _both_ of your afternoons have been completely wasted.

 _Oh hell no_.

“We’ll be out of your hair in literally thirty seconds,” you blurt, the words leaving your lips before you really think about what you’re saying. Both athletes pause. Oikawa turns to look at you in surprise while the other whips around, glaring daggers. You give a hasty bow and a small “Please,” much more for the latter’s sake. He’s obviously much more bothered by your interjection than Oikawa.

Oikawa hums, and you can feel his eyes on you. He probably didn’t notice you were there beforehand. “She’s got a point, Iwa-chan,” he says to his companion. “These ladies have been waiting patiently for a picture. It wouldn’t be fair to them if you stole me away right before!”

God, what an annoying statement. Your eye twitches; you see that Spiky Hair—Iwa-chan—also feels the same, looking flatly at Oikawa. He opens his mouth to automatically object, but his eyes quickly flit to you, then to Momo and Pigtails. Momo is giving him her best puppy dog eyes, bottom lip puffed out slightly; you _swear_ you see his cheeks redden. Iwa-chan tsks, arms crossing over his chest as he looks off to the side. “Make it quick,” he grumbles.

* * *

What an interesting girl.

Oikawa hadn’t noticed you before you spoke, but then again he hadn’t really been focusing on anything as he dealt with the small flock of fangirls. Somehow, word had spread that this was his first match back from injuring himself; and although he anticipated there would be a few admirers (as there always were), he hadn’t expected _this_ many to show up. He could tell that Iwaizumi was especially annoyed with the squealing this time around. If Oikawa were being honest, he was a little bit too.

His entourage trailed him after he went to go confront Karasuno at the front entrance. As much as Oikawa wants to ignore them—all he wants to do is go back to the gymnasium and be with his team, eager to start developing a game plan so that he can crush little Tobio next match—he lets the Pleasant Mask he has perfected slip up onto his face, taking time out of his precious schedule to entertain each girl. It would be a lie to say he doesn’t enjoy the attention—his ego certainly loves it—but at the same time, it gets old relatively quickly. At least the milk bread is always welcomed.

As much as he doesn’t really _agree_ with his best friend’s methods (is a volleyball to the head really necessary?), Oikawa has to admit that he is a bit relieved when Iwaizumi comes to fetch him. He knows that it’s mostly because Iwa-chan hates when Oikawa slacks on his duties (though to be fair, it really is _not_ his fault he is so popular; Iwa-chan should really recognize this!). At the same time, Oikawa can’t help but wonder if the ace has a sort of sixth sense to when assistance is needed. It would make sense, considering they’ve been friends since childhood; and as much as Iwa-chan won’t admit it, he cares deeply for his friends.

So Oikawa breathes a small, silent sigh of relief as he turns to trail after Iwaizumi, glad to be headed towards a place where he can relax and actually _be himself_.

But then you speak, and Oikawa finds himself intrigued.

He refrains from grinning when you give Iwa-chan a small, sheepish bow, but the smirk flits fully onto his face as he gages his friend’s reaction. It’s not everyday someone speaks up against the scary athlete, and it’s even more rare that it’s a _fangirl_ that does it. In fact, now that Oikawa thinks about it, he doesn’t think a fangirl has _ever_ talked back to Iwa-chan. They are all too afraid of him.

Except for you, it seems.

Iwaizumi is not happy and doesn’t bother to hide it. Oikawa highly doubts the ace will snap at you, but you don’t know that. The captain surprises himself by speaking up in your defense, saying, “She’s got a point, Iwa-chan. These ladies have been waiting patiently for a picture.” He runs a hand through his hair, smiling coyly. “It wouldn’t be fair to them if you stole me away right before!”

He deliberately puts on airs in order to bother his killjoy of a friend. It works; Iwaizumi looks at him flatly, eye twitching. Oikawa can practically see the unspoken words in the air— _Shut up you arrogant bastard God why do I_ deal _with this—_

Typical Iwa-chan.

The ace opens his mouth, almost certainly to say no. But then he looks at you, then to the other two girls behind Oikawa. Of the two, the short-haired brunette is giving him the most simpering of gazes, gray eyes shining in hope. It’s so sugary-sweet that even Oikawa feels a little ill.

And Iwaizumi, the most hard-ass of hard-asses, _blushes_.

Oikawa actually intrigued by a fangirl, Iwa-chan getting flustered—What has this world come to?

Iwaizumi crosses his arms, looking away quickly, and gives his gruff consent. Oikawa is so surprised that it takes him a second to register that the pigtailed girl is talking to him at a rapid speed, blushing and gushing about how _cool_ he looked at the game and _Can I just get one picture—_

Oikawa quickly slips his Pleasant Mask back on, smiling easily and wrapping one arm around the girl because _Yes, yes, of course, my pleasure, anytime~_

Then it’s the brunette’s turn. She doesn’t say too much, merely looking down at her feet shyly before you tell her she needs to look up or else it will just be a picture of Oikawa and a mop of hair. Oikawa smirks at the comment; as he poses with a peace sign, he thinks about how different the two of you are, yet you still both contain the power to quell the Wrath of Iwa-chan. An interesting duo indeed.

After the picture is taken, the shy fangirl practically skips over to you, grabbing her phone quickly to look. (“Why is it so dark?” he hears her ask. You shrug, saying, “Not my fault. It _is_ near sundown.”) Oikawa takes the time to look at you, the one who piqued his interest. You’re quite pretty but plain, borderline mundane. Your wear your uniform properly, and your (color) hair is tied up neatly out of your face. (Color) eyes don’t reveal anything except for the slightest hint of weariness—from what, Oikawa isn’t too sure. You have a very unassuming aura about you; it’s as if you are used to being on the sidelines, merely observing, never participating.

Iwa-chan grunts and Oikawa turns to him, ready to placate the beast. The spiker’s already-nonexistent patience is on its last leg. “See, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says whimsically, “super quick. Now just one more—”

He turns back to greet you only to find that there is, in fact, _no_ you. Oikawa blinks. You’re already halfway to the school entrance, listening to your friend as she now talks at a rapid speed. He hears her say “(Name)-chan, you didn’t want a picture?” and you shrug, answering, “Not really.”

 _Eh_?

Iwaizumi, also hearing this exchange, begins to laugh. Oikawa turns to him, shouting, “It’s not funny!” The ace ignores the comment, laughing even louder at Oikawa’s obvious annoyance.

“Sure is. _Man_ , hearing that makes me glad I didn’t drag you back when I should have.” He grins at Oikawa, and Oikawa feels a twinge of annoyance course through his body. Iwaizumi actually finds this _funny_.

“You’re so mean, Iwa-chan,” pouts Oikawa. As always, his quick wit gives him an immediate retort, and he adds, “No wonder you haven’t had a girlfriend in—”

Oikawa is cut off by a volleyball slamming into his forehead. He yelps, rubbing the now-tender spot as he glares at his friend. Iwaizumi’s previous light-hearted mood—if you can even _call_ it that—has been replaced by his standard level of irritation. “Shut up,” the ace mutters, eyes narrowed. He turns on his heel to head back to the gym. “You’ve had your stupid fun. Let’s go.”

Oikawa follows, catching up to his friend in a few quick strides. He finds himself looking back over his shoulder. You are far enough away now that he can’t hear the two of you, your forms casting long shadows in the setting sun. The short-haired brunette is now moving around animatedly, showing you something on her phone. He catches the small smile that flits onto your face.

“(Name)…” Oikawa says, feeling the way the name rolls off his tongue easily. “Do you know her?”

Iwaizumi shrugs. “No clue. I’ve seen her around but never talked to her. Think she’s a third year.” He gives Oikawa a sideways glance. “Why? Bothered that not every girl is in love with you?”

“Hardly,” responds Oikawa, scoffing. He takes the volleyball from Iwaizumi, spinning it on his finger as they walk. And it’s the truth. He has more important things to focus on this year. There’s the upcoming Interhigh Qualifiers in two months’ time, and Oikawa is determined to _finally_ break through and go to a national tournament this year. Not to mention he also needs to keep his grades up _and_ prep for the University Entrance Exams in January.

One disinterested girl does not deserve, and will not get, any more thought than he’s already given her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit about how this story came about: I first learnt about Oikawa this September when he was trending on Twitter with the whole war criminal thing. I legit had no clue who he was, but seeing all the drama and meme-ry that followed made me laugh until my stomach hurt. Then in November I was browsing Netflix and saw Haikyuu. I hadn't watched anime in quite a while because Life but I remembered the Twitter drama, and so I started to watch Haikyuu ironically "in order to see the war criminal" because I'm trash like that. 
> 
> Needless to say, I QUICKLY fell in love. Binge-watched the whole thing. Of course I was already a little biased with liking Oikawa because of Twitter, but I really fell head-over-heels for him the more I learnt about his character. I know a lot of people paint him as this flippant, snarky, petty, flirty trash-guy (which he is, let's not beat around the bush), but what I really love is how complex he is. There is way more to him than meets the eye.
> 
> I haven't written anything in literal years, so I am not sure how this fic will turn out quality-wise. I started writing this to distract myself from all the bullshit that's going on in my life and in my head; before I knew it, it turned into a full, multi-chaptered story with an actual plot. It started out with a stupid concept, and somehow turned into something much more. So even if it sucks, writing this has given me a lot of joy, and I owe it to myself to see it through. SO ENJOY!!
> 
> If you haven't noticed, I chatter a lot. It's just my style, whoops lol. too many thoughts, too little brain power to put it into cohesive, concise wording lol!!


	2. Glass Half Empty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Fate is like a strange, unpopular restaurant filled with waiters who bring you things you never asked for and don’t always like."_ \- Lemony Snicket

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who took the time to read the first chapter. This is where the main plot starts! Please see end notes for some clarifications on things that may be a little confusing in this chapter. Enjoy!

The first thing you notice when you step into Classroom 5 is that Momo looks especially annoyed today. She barely acknowledges your presence as you sit down in front of her, stormy eyes narrowed in irritation.

“Woke up on the wrong side of the bed?” you ask her, unwrapping your bento. Your best friend snorts, rolling her eyes, and begins to dig into her lunch now that you’ve arrived.

“Actually, today started off great,” she tells you through a mouthful of rice. “I passed that science quiz—thanks for your help, by the way—and found out that I was selected for Photo Koshien.” She says the last part so casually that it takes you a second to realize her words.

You blink in surprise before smiling widely, excited for your best friend. “Really? Wow, Momo-chan; that’s great to hear!”

Photo Koshien is an annual national high school photography competition. At the beginning of each school year, eighteen schools around Japan are chosen; within those schools, three students are selected to compete in a three-day shooting competition in July. Momo has been vying for a spot since you were first years, and has worked very hard to hone her skills appropriately—you would know, as you’ve been her subject more times than you can count. Although you don’t understand all the fine details, you know that being chosen to represent your school is an honor.

Momo gives you a half-hearted smile that grows into a more sincere one when you poke her in the side with the clean end of your chopsticks. “Be more enthusiastic!” you exclaim. “It’s weird if I’m more excited than you.”

“Yeah, that’s true. That _never_ happens.” Momo waves her hand, brushing off your comments. “It’s just a nomination. It’s not a big deal; it’s not like I’ve won,” she says breezily.

You find it odd that she’s not as enthusiastic as you predicted she would be. Momo isn’t the type of person to put all of her eggs in one basket, but still—this lack of excitement throws you off. Something must have happened to dim her mood. “You haven’t won _yet_ ,” you correct. “Why are you being so humble right now? C’mon, you can afford to be cocky. This is a big honor.” You lean forward, a little concerned. “Did something happen?”

She scowls. “I didn’t have time to really celebrate; immediately after I got the news, social studies happened.” She shoves a large amount of rice into her mouth.

Now you understand. You look at her forlornly. “It’s happening, then?”

“Unfortunately so,” answers Momo gruffly. “It’s such a stupid project—like we _need_ any more busy work.”

You sigh. Every April for as long as he had been at Aoba Johsai, Morita-sensei, the third-year economics and social studies teacher, would assign what he liked to call the “Budget Project” (also known by the students as the “Pain in the Ass and Waste of Time Stress Project”). Students were paired at random, assigned a hypothetical life scenario, and were given until December to create a massive budget based off of their circumstances. It wasn’t hard, per se, but notorious for being very time-consuming and stressful if not paced properly. There was talk that the old teacher was _finally_ going to get rid of it this year, but obviously not.

“Who’d you get partnered with?” you ask Momo. She shakes her head.

“Let’s make it a game,” the brunette responds. “I’ll answer any three questions about them; let’s see if you can guess correctly.”

“Okay, so based on your mood when I came in, it’s not someone you’re happy about.”

Momo pouts. “Not fair, (Name)-chan—that’s like a free answer already. But yes.”

“Not my fault I have great deduction skills. Also you wear your heart on your sleeve. You make this very easy,” you tell her, grinning. She concedes, nodding while shrugging at the same time. “First official question,” you continue. “Are they in this room right now?”

Momo’s eyes flit around the room before she focuses on someone behind you, scowling. “Yes.”

You turn in your chair, looking right where her gaze landed. Momo is definitely not the most subtle of people, but you suppose that’s part of her charm. A trio of boys are sitting together, looking at the newest volume of some shounen manga. One of them has a small thermos beside him, and you begin to put the clues together. You turn back, asking, “Is he drinking coffee?”

Momo’s scowl deepens and you reach over to poke between her eyebrows to try to smooth the crinkled skin there. “Just like _every_ morning,” she grumbles.

You wince for her sake. “So it’s Coffee Breath, then?”

“I want to die.”

“What’s your fate?”

“I’m divorced with three kids who recently got remarried to _that_ guy. He’s like a psychologist or something. We recently moved to an apartment in Kobe because, _get this_ , I got promoted at my job with _UCC_.” Momo throws her hands up. “The gods must find it funny to give me a job with _Ueshima Coffee Company_!”

“Maybe you’re dealing with a vengeful spirit,” you add, giving her a sympathetic smile.

“Sounds like it. He said he’s good with numbers, though, so that makes my life a little easier. We’re going to fix the coffee issue _real_ quick, however.” Momo still looks annoyed, but seems a little calmer after venting to you. “Who’d you get?”

“Social Studies is my last class of the day, so not sure yet,” you answer. “Hopefully someone good.”

You think back on the conversation you had with your sister, Umeko, last night. _“Better hope you get someone good,”_ she said. _“Or at least someone smart. Otherwise it will be a miserable time until December.”_ A small knot of apprehension twists in your stomach.

“Don’t worry so much! You’ll be fine,” Momo says, pulling you from your thoughts. She passes you an encouraging smile. “You’re in the smart class, so you’re _basically_ secured a good partner.” She pops a piece of meat in her mouth.

“I think we were assigned our classes at random…” you murmur. She shrugs.

“Maybe so. I dunno how these things work. But you’re going to be okay, promise. After all, it’s guaranteed that _you’ll_ be on your team. There’s no way your project can turn out bad.”

“That’s a weird way to put it, but thank you,” you say, smiling at your friend’s oddly-worded compliment. “I just want someone who can pull their weight, you know?” You are very serious about school. You don’t care if your partner has the same mentality or work ethic—you just want to make sure that they don’t drag you down.

“I get it,” Momo says. She leans back in her chair slightly. “Okay, so name some people in your class. Let’s evaluate them.”

You visualize Class 6 in your head, ticking off the names with your fingers. “Well there’s Fumiko-chan—”

“Very lazy but also a genius. Probably most ideal to be paired for you with, since you’re friends.”

“Iwasaki-kun—”

“On the baseball team, don’t know much about him except he’s cute. Would be a good partner, if not just to look at.”

“Shiraishi-san—”

“Ooooh, she’s in Photography Club with me. _Great_ with planning; she always gets her projects in on time. You wouldn’t have to stress about anything being last-minute. Also got nominated for the Koshien.”

“Oh, good for her. We also have Schwartz-san—”

“The half guy with the funky hair? Yeah, pass. He’s weird.”

“You know Oishi-chan,” you say. The brunette nods.

“Not the brightest, but can cook a _mean_ gâteau. Pretty fitting considering her last name. You wouldn’t go hungry when studying, that’s for sure.” Momo leans toward you conspiratorially, and you have a weird sense of déjà vu. “Speaking of names with ‘Oi,’ isn’t Oikawa-kun in your class?” Her eyes light up.

You sigh. _Of course._ “Yes,” you tell her.

Normal Momo is replaced instantly by Fangirl Momo. Her cheeks turn a cherry red and her eyes become dreamy, a stupid smile wobbling up onto her face. “Momo-chan, stop it,” you say, visibly cringing. You wave a hand at her. “You’re all… gooey.”

“Whoever gets him as a partner is so _lucky_ ~” she says, completely ignoring your protests. She looks at you, gaze suddenly sharp again. “What if it ends up being you?!”

You snort, rolling your eyes. “Don’t get your hopes up. The likelihood of that happening is slim to none. And even if it _did_ happen, you’re on your own if you want to win him over.” Momo puffs her cheeks out.

“You wouldn’t help your best friend, (Name)-chan? So mean,” she jokes, and you laugh. “Anyway, I’m pretty sure he’s seeing someone, so it’s not like it would actually happen even if I wanted.”

Your eyebrow twitches as you take a sip of water. If he’s taken, why are fangirls still after him? Are they not aware? More importantly, why does he act like he’s single?

**_“(Name), you’re overreacting. None of it means anything. Please stop being so paranoid. Do you not trust me?”_ **

The unwelcome memory suddenly pops in your head, startling you. Your fingers tighten around your water bottle.

“We’ll see,” you say, shaking your head lightly to rid your thoughts. Momo mistakes your head movement as exasperation and gives you a toothy smile. You return the gesture, though half-heartedly. You begin to pack up your bento. “I’m going to head out early; I need to go double-check an assignment for Japanese before we submit it. You know how bad I am at kanji,” you say. You slide your gaze to her. “We still on for our café date after school?”

“Duh,” she answers, giving you a small salute. This time the smile you give her is genuine.

“Great. Meet you at the school gates. I also insist on paying to celebrate the Koshien nomination.” You stand up, giving her a small wave.

“I’ll send a quick prayer up that you don’t get stuck with Schwartz-san.” She gives you a thumbs up.

You laugh, saying a small “Thanks” before heading back to your classroom.

* * *

“This should come as no surprise as I’m sure you’ve all heard from your fellow students by now,” Morita-sensei says at the end of class, “but it’s time to be paired for the annual Budget Project.”

The classroom is engulfed in a series of groans, and Oikawa finds himself frowning. He heard from Iwa-chan, Makki, and Mattsun during lunch that it was happening—as Morita-sensei had correctly guessed, almost all of the third years who had social studies class in the latter half of the day knew of their impending fate—but that still doesn’t stop the announcement from being any less annoying. Like literally every third year at Aoba Johsai, Oikawa is not thrilled about the project. It won’t be hard by any means, he knows, but there are so many other things that he would rather do instead of wasting time by crunching numbers for a hypothetical life. Like focusing on Nationals.

“Now, now. Don’t act like it’s the end of the world.” The balding teachers raises a hand to quell the noise in the room. “I’m sure everyone is already very familiar with how this works, but for those who don’t…”

Morita-sensei launches into his spiel and Oikawa only half-listens. He glances at the people in his field of vision and wonders if there’s really anyone in his class he won’t _mind_ working alongside. As popular as Oikawa is, he only has a handful of acquaintances and even smaller selection of friends. As luck would have it, all the other third-year volleyball members—the people he’d actually enjoy being partnered with—are in different classes. He has a few acquaintances in the class, but they are just that: acquaintances. He knows next to nothing about them. There are also a few fangirls, and he can already feel their hopeful gazes locking onto him.

Oikawa sighs. He really wishes Iwa-chan were in this class. As much as the ace loves to bitch about him (in part caused by one of Oikawa’s favorite pastimes of pushing his friend’s buttons), the two work well together, both in and out of volleyball.

“This project won’t be hard unless you make it difficult on yourselves by waiting until the last minute to start,” Morita-sensei says. Oikawa focuses back on the teacher. “Your time-management skills will be a vital part of your success, both in this project and in life. All of you _should_ already be exercising them, considering the university entrance exams are right around the corner. They will be here before you know it.” He looks over the rim of his glasses at his class.

“I recommend getting together at least once a week. Might need more, might need less. Just be wise about your time,” Morita-sensei concludes. He taps on his desk with his papers. “Now, for the pairings. I will preface this by saying these are final; there will be no switching. If you don’t like your partner, you’ll learn.” A rare smile flits up onto the teacher’s face. “And you never know—maybe your greatest enemy will end up becoming your best friend. I’ve even seen a pair get married before. This project can end in life-long friendships, so do take it seriously.” He clears his throat. “When you hear your name, please stand.”

 _Life-long relationships_. Oikawa doubts that will actually happen.

The captain watches people’s reactions as Morita-sensei starts reading off the pairs. Iwasaki Yoshio, the baseball captain, breathes an audible sigh of relief when he’s paired with the smartest girl in their grade, Oogami Fumiko. Fumiko-chan, on the other hand, looks pretty irritated. Tsuchiya Kotaro and Schwatz Natsu are partnered; the latter mutters something to himself in German, causing everyone around him to tense. Oishi Kasumi goes with Teramoto Masafumi. Considering how delicious her milk bread is, Oikawa is a little envious of Tera-chan; but at the same time, _everyone_ knows how Tera-chan feels about the little baker, so in a way the whole class is secretly excited for him, Oikawa included (if only marginally).

“Oikawa Tooru,” calls Morita-sensei. Oikawa stands up, smiling easily. The two fangirls in his class begin to whisper with one another excitedly. He really hopes he doesn’t end up with one of them.

The teacher clears his throat, finger dragging along the page. “You will be paired with… (Full Name).”

Oikawa has no idea who that is, but the first name rings a bell in his mind. _(Name)… why does that sound familiar?_

And then when a figure to his left stands up and he looks to view his new partner, he realizes why.

It’s you, the disinterested girl from the other day. Oikawa didn’t even realize you were in his class.

You look as reserved as you did the other day. Your hair is down today, he notes; the locks frame your face in a way that make you look youthful, a contrast to the mature air surrounding you. Your expression is impassive, revealing nothing. You stare straight ahead, refusing to look at Oikawa.

The life situation seems to be more on the realistic side of things: you are friends who recent graduates from Tokyo University, and have decided to stay in the capital to kick-start your lives. You all just moved into a new apartment in Shibuya, opting to live together since rent can be expensive. Oikawa has just started up with a new, promising tech company, while you are working a few-part time jobs until you find something a bit more steady.

You still don’t look at him even as Morita-sensei moves on with the rest of the groupings. Oikawa tells himself that he’s not bothered, but still finds himself occasionally looking in your direction for the remainder of class. He wonders if you’re always like this—guarded, aloof, inconspicuous. A wallflower. He hadn’t even known of your existence until a few days ago.

You seem okay enough. You’re certainly not the worst person he could be forced to work with. He should have an easy-enough time working with you, especially once you warm up to his charm.

The school bell rings, signaling the end of the day. Students shuffle to grab their things, rushing off to gossip with their friends about who ended up with whom. Oikawa stands, stretching his long limbs, and walks over to his new partner. His Pleasant Mask slips onto his face with ease. “Looks like we’ll be working together,” he says to you, one hand brushing the top of your desk.

You glance at him from your peripherals briefly before zipping your attention back to your schoolbag, placing your things inside in an orderly fashion. “Looks like it,” you murmur. You don’t smile back. It still doesn’t bother him, he is sure.

“Maybe we should grab a coffee or something sometime—you know, to get to know each other. Since we’re partners and all,” he supplies.

You suddenly tense and frown, hands tightening on the straps of your bag. You stand and scoot in your desk chair. Oikawa is taken aback when you finally look at him, brown eyes meeting (color) ones. You exude a polite indifference, but underneath it all, there is a hint of _anger_. Obviously his suggestion did not go over well. Why, he has no idea.

You speak. “As nice as that sounds”— _Does it?_ thinks Oikawa—“I am unfortunately already pretty busy. I know you are too with volleyball. Maybe tomorrow we can just talk to figure out a schedule.” You shrug your bag over your shoulder, waiting for his response.

Oikawa finds his smile slipping slightly. “Sure…” he murmurs.

You nods and then bow slightly to him in parting, murmuring a small “Excuse me” as you leave. Oikawa watches you disappear around the corner. His lips draw back into a thin line, eyebrows furrowing. He then realizes that tomorrow is Saturday, and that Aoba Johsai no longer has a half-day of classes on the weekend.

He is not bothered. Not at all.

* * *

Momo finally brings up the Budget Project after you’ve both gotten your usual orders at your favorite café.

“Okay,” your friend says hastily, “I’ve been _dying_ to ask. Who’d you get paired with?”

You take a sip of your coffee, enjoying the way it warms you from the inside. “If you’ve been dying to ask, why didn’t you when we were talking here?” you query.

“I wanted to, but you looked really irritated. Thought it’d be best to wait until you had a coffee in your hand because they always make you feel better.”

You hum in response. “You’re not wrong.”

The brunette smiles sunnily at your answer before sobering up quite quickly. “On a serious note, all good? I knew that your mood would be a toss-up depending on who your partner ended up being, but I didn’t think you’d be _angry_.”

You heave a sigh. “It’s not that, it’s just…” you trail off, Oikawa’s words ringing in your mind.

_“Maybe we should grab a coffee or something sometime—you know, to get to know each other. Since we’re partners and all.”_

**_“(Name), it’s_ just _coffee—nothing else. Please stop worrying so much.”_**

His voice pops back up in your head for the third time that day. Your gut clenches uncomfortably. _Please go away._

“(Name)-chan?” Momo is looking at you worriedly. You didn’t realize that you’re frowning.

You rap your knuckles on the table, plastering a smile on your face. You don’t want to answer her unspoken question. “Okay, since we did this for you—you have three questions. Ask away.”

Momo looks like she wants to discuss your previous mood further, but you know she knows when things need to be dropped. She plays along, asking, “Okay. Boy or girl?”

“Boy.”

“Do you know him?”

“Not really.”

“Do _I_ know him?”

“Yes, but not on a personal level.” You look at your friend with amused exasperation. “That’s three. You’re not very good at this game, are you?”

“Maybe I only needed general questions to guess correctly, (Name)-chan!” Momo wags her finger at you but quickly gives up the façade, instead smiling sheepishly. “But if I’m honest, I messed up; I just asked the first questions on my mind. Whoops~” She laughs it off, tapping her chin as she thinks about your answers. “A boy that you don’t know, but _I_ do, just not on a personal level… so that must mean he’s an acquaintance of mine…”

Technically you _do_ know Oikawa—doesn’t everyone at school?—and he’s definitely not an acquaintance of hers, but you don’t bother correcting her on something so trivial. “Ah,” she says, eyes lighting up. “Is it Iwasaki-kun? You know, the baseball guy.”

“Nope. He’s with Fumiko-chan. She didn’t seem too happy,” you reveal, and Momo’s shoulders slump dramatically at her incorrect guess.

“Too bad it’s not him! He’s super cute. I thought you two would look good together.” She makes a heart with her hands, saying, “ _Doki doki._ ”

Your cheeks flush just the slightest. “Momo-chan, the goal of this project isn’t to find romance,” you reprimand, though you find yourself smiling. “Though I appreciate the gesture.” Your friend grins.

“You never know what can happen~” Momo says airily. “You heard what Morita-sensei said—apparently a couple got _married_! Anyway, if it’s not him, who is it? NO, wait—I changed my mind, don’t tell me yet,” she shouts quickly as you open your mouth. “I still want to think about it a bit more. In the meantime, though, let’s do this for Oikawa-kun!” She practically squirms in her seat in anticipation.

You hide your cringe behind your coffee cup. You take a nice, long sip before saying, “If you’d like.” You gesture with a hand for her to start the questioning.

“Boy or girl?”

“This same question?”

“Don’t judge. It’s a good question—narrows my selection pool by roughly half.”

“Fair,” you supply. “Girl.”

Momo hums in consideration, looking out the window thoughtfully. Although your best friend doesn’t know everyone in your grade, she’s a relatively friendly girl with a good knack for remembering faces. She’s been in your particular classroom on more than one occasion; you can see her mind filtering through the girls in your class.

After a moment Momo gets that sheepish look on her face. “Do I know her well?”

 _Man, she’s really not good at this_ , you think, smirking into your mug. “Yes, you do.” After a second, you decide to help her out a bit. “You know her extremely well.”

“Eh, really? How well?”

“I would say, I dunno, like best friend well.”

Momo pauses, absorbing your words. You can pinpoint the exact moment she figures everything out. She jumps, knees knocking into the table support. Her latte with the cute cat foam art spills over the lip a little, distorting the poor animal’s face. “No way, _really_?”

“Surprise,” you say with flat enthusiasm.

“WOW! Lucky!” She’s loud. Some of the other café-going Seijoh students look over curiously at the two of you. While you hunch down slightly in your seat, Momo pays everyone no mind. Her eyes are wide and she smirks at you. “And to think you were _so_ certain it wasn’t going to be you.”

“I didn’t say—oh whatever,” you mumble. Momo won’t listen even if you correct her; she’s relishing too much in the fact that she was right. “It’s not that big of a deal,” you tell her. “I just hope he’s smart.”

“He’s really smart,” Momo assures you. There’s the swoony smile again. “He’s not _you_ -level smart, but he’s consistently ranked high on exams.” She looks thoughtful as she says, “I feel like you kind of have to be smart to be a setter.”

“A—A what?” That’s a new term for you.

“A setter. It’s the position Oikawa-kun plays in volleyball,” Momo says, sounding like it’s the most obvious thing ever. You don’t understand the correlation, and your friend explains further, realizing your confusion. “Do you remember back when we played violin in that baby orchestra?”

“Oh God—don’t remind me. I was so bad. But yes.”

“You recall the conductor, right? How she’d lead the orchestra?” You nod. “If we’re drawing a parallel, setters are kind of like that. All positions are important in volleyball—it is a team sport, after all—but the setters are really key to a great team. They’re the ones who set the ball up for an attack, hence the name; they are responsible for _where_ the ball goes, and _who_ gets it.

“Doesn’t matter how good your power hitters are—if you don’t set up a play well, it won’t be executed properly,” Momo continues. This is probably basic volleyball knowledge, but you’re still really impressed by her expertise. “Setters have to make really quick decisions all the time. It sounds very stressful,” she concludes, sighing.

“You know your stuff,” you say. “Remind me again why you didn’t join the volleyball club?”

“Because athletics are _not_ my thing; you know this. Gym was a nightmare in middle school—do you remember that one time I got hit in the face when we were forced to play volleyball? I’m _still_ angry about it. Never again. I’ll just watch and appreciate from a distance, thank you very much.” She grins at you before switching back topics. “So we didn’t see him do it at the practice game because he unfortunately wasn’t there for long, but Oikawa-kun is known for his skills as a setter. In fact, he won Best Setter Award in junior high. He’s so cool!”

You briefly think about asking your friend about that powerful serve of his, but catch yourself, knowing Momo could easily talk about volleyball for thirty minutes straight. You swirl around the remains of your coffee at the bottom of your cup. “Sounds like this setter position is based more on intuition rather than actual intelligence,” you comment.

The brunette shrugs. “Well he’s got both. You’re lucky~ He is too, of course, for having you as a partner. I wouldn’t be surprised if your project turns out to be the best Morita-sensei has seen in a while, if not ever.”

“I wouldn’t go that far; Morita-sensei has been around for years.” You smile at your friend, appreciative of how uplifting she is. She has long been your support, which you’re especially grateful for when you don’t feel so good about yourself.

Momo sips at her latte and there is a brief lull in conversation as she checks her phone. You are pulled into your thoughts, thinking more about Oikawa. The two of you have never interacted until the other day, but you know enough about him already from what you’ve seen. You get why he’s so popular, you really do.

Smart. Attractive. Charming.

A pair of honey-brown eyes flash in your mind, and something inside you withers.

“I guess it depends on how well we work together,” you murmur, breaking the silence. Momo looks up at you; she is immediately alarmed by the look on your face. “Handsome, charismatic, confident,” you list, smirking drily. “We saw how it turned out last time.” The words are bitter.

Momo’s eyes soften. “Is that why you were so angry?” she asks gently.

You look out the window at the sidewalk, grimacing. “Oikawa-san came to talk to me after class,” you begin explaining. “He didn’t say anything rude or pompous at all. In fact, he was being friendly. It’s just… when he talked, all I could hear was _his_ voice.”

**_“(Name), it’s_ just _coffee—”_**

Momo’s hand reaches out, thin fingers wrapping around your fist. You didn’t even realize you had balled your hands. She squeezes lightly, prompting you to look at her. You do so. Her gray eyes are saturated with sympathy, and you can’t help but hate the pity.

“Oikawa-kun isn’t Tatsuya, you know,” she says. You wince at the mention of the name, and her fingers squeeze harder.

“How you can you be so sure?” you mutter. You hate how pathetic your voice sounds.

Your friend’s lips are drawn back into a hard line. “I can’t,” she says honestly, “but I have a feeling.”

You smile at Momo, unclenching your first to squeeze her hand back in an affirming gesture. Her eyes light up and she segues easily into another topic in an attempt to lighten the mood. You play along, laughing and giving quick remarks as she talks more about Photo Koshien and Coffee Breath and how she’s _certain_ she’ll fail the kanji test next week, even though you both know that it’s her best subject. And although your mood does improve, the heavy stone in your stomach does not budge.

You want to be assured by her words, but you find that you just can’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes:  
> 1) Photo Koshien is a real thing! If you're interested, [here's](https://asiatrend.org/arts/photo-koshien-japanese-national-high-school-photography-contest/) a short article:  
> 2) "Oishi" means "delicious" or "tasty," hence that comment from Momo
> 
> And this is where things start to spiral in oblivion. :D The Budget Project is absolutely ridiculous and probs super unrealistic for Japanese schools... but this is a fanfiction lol so I'm taking my liberties. ;) I actually had to do something like this in high school, though not as long as these poor kids. When I say it was the worst, it was!
> 
> Edited slightly for accurate class numbers. Thanks quadaxels for pointing out the error!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Causation versus Correlation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“So many of man’s actions appear to have no immediate consequence but, concealed, do their work until finally all catches up and forms a complex web of cause and effect.”_ – Tobsha Learner, _The Witch of Cologne_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EYYYYY guess who lost all of their pre-written chapters and has to start back at Square One?! :'D fml

Momo’s tentative assurance about Oikawa lingers in your mind the rest of the weekend, giving you enough time to calm down and collect your thoughts. Even if you aren’t the most thrilled to work with the brunette, you know that there’s nothing that can be done, and so you decide that the least you can do is try to be civil and cooperative. Like Momo said, Oikawa isn’t Tatsuya—correlation doesn’t always mean causation, after all. You tell yourself that this is going to be your mantra until your brain and heart decide to cooperate again, which you hope is very soon. You’ve spent the past two years slowly working toward healing. It’s been a struggle enough as is; you really don’t need another hurdle. 

On Monday you go up to Oikawa to hash out a meeting schedule. You don’t apologize for your previous rude behavior (even though you know you should), and he doesn’t ask for one (even though he seems expectant, despite his lackadaisical attitude). You both decide that Monday afternoons are probably the best option: for Oikawa, that’s his only day off; and for you, Dance Club is still on its small hiatus following the sudden retirement of your former coach, so you have no afternoon activities as of yet. Your partner warns you that some weeks it just won’t be possible to meet due to his rigorous schedule; you try telling him in the nicest way possible that you don’t care. Based on his slight frown, it doesn’t end up sounding very cordial.

The two of you start meeting at the same café you frequently go to with Momo. For the first two weeks or so Oikawa uses that same charismatic air that he uses with every other girl, but because you have your emotional walls up and on high alert (which frustrates you; you know _why_ you’re like this, but again— _correlation, not causation, (Name)_ ), his charm is ineffective. Instead of eliciting a smile, his comments earn a tiny frown. Normally where girls giggle and laugh, you stay silent. Most would blush at the flattery; you instead remain stone-faced. 

(“Wow, you’re really smart. How lucky I get to work with you~”

“Great. So anyway, the advantages to this apartment are that A) it’s much more roomy and B) it’s close to the station, but it’s also three times more expensive than the other apartment. Also we need to keep in mind that—”)

The first time you dismiss him, the captain lets the smallest of frowns slip up onto his face. It’s the first and last indication that he’s slightly off-put by your behavior. All other times afterward he merely acts like nothing’s wrong, face stuck in perpetual indifference. Eventually remarks stop altogether. 

There are quite a few advantages to working at the café: 1) there is an endless supply of coffee, and caffeine _always_ makes you happier (and functional); 2) it’s close to school, so it’s an easy location to meet after class; and 3) it’s a public place, so there’s less need for idle, menial chitchat between you and Oikawa.

Unfortunately, there are also disadvantages to this location, and these quickly begin to outweigh the benefits: 1) because of course the coffee isn’t free, you quickly use up your monthly allowance (which means your unhealthy caffeine addiction can no longer be satiated); 2) because it’s so close to school, there are a lot of Seijoh students who visit the vicinity; and 3) because it’s a public place, there is more opportunity for said Seijoh students—mostly, of course, the girls—to come talk to Oikawa.

Meetings with Oikawa never go smoothly nor are they are productive are you want. Without fail, a fangirl always comes to chat with your partner, taking away his attention from the task at hand. It’s annoying, but you’re more bothered by the conversations themselves. Even though you try to avoid listening, it’s hard when they sound so familiar.

(“Kiyomi-chan, did you do something different to your hair today? You look even lovelier today than normal~”

 ** _“Shiori-san, I really like this new hairstyle on you! It looks so lovely.”_** )

(“Ah, Mizuki-san, how did you know milk bread was my favorite~? Thanks so much.”

 ** _“Reiko-chan, thanks so much! This is my favorite snack—how did you know?”_** )

(“Okuda-chan, are you planning on coming to the Interhigh Qualifiers in June? We’d really love your support~”

 ** _“Noda-chan, isn’t the Girls Soccer Team playing a game against Shiratorizawa soon? I’ll try to make it to support you all!”_** )

_Correlation, not causation, (Name)._

Oikawa is friendly to the point of being borderline flirty, which you’re sure is part of the reason he’s so popular. He knows exactly what to say and when to say it. He is never one to shy away from doling out compliments, nor does he ever deny anyone a picture when they ask. He seems appreciative of every gift he’s given, and always makes sure that he has that Easy Smile on his face when interacting with those who approach him. It’s apparent that he’s very aware of his public image; he takes care to maintain it, despite the fact that his attitude could be so easily misconstrued. You try to ignore it all, but it’s hard to when you’ve seen behavior so similar before. 

( ** _He holds your hand in one of his own and uses the other to carry a gift he received earlier today. He looks at you, sighing, and plants a kiss on the top of your head. “_ Amore mio _, please. You know these things mean nothing—it’s all just part of the image. Please don’t worry. I only have eyes for you.” You try to relax, but you can’t help but wonder—how can you feel so important, but so invisible at the same time?_** )

_Correlation, NOT causation, (Name)._

Regardless of how many times you utter it, your mantra proves to be useless. Your stubborn heart refuses to yield, no matter how much you try to rationalize with yourself or how much you keep busy. Tatsuya’s presence starts to become more prominent with each passing day. Sometimes he appears when you’re with Oikawa, and the brunette says something you swear you’ve heard before _—_

(“Yucchin, how’d you do on that math test? I didn’t cram enough… maybe we can study together next time?”

 ** _“Man, I bombed that science test! Luckily Ai-chan offered to study together next time—eh, (Name), why are you frowning? She and I are in the same class… it makes sense to work together.”_** )

Other times he pops up at random for seemingly no reason whatsoever.

(As you slice up some cucumber for tomorrow’s bento, Umeko hangs out with you in the kitchen, summarizing the latest episode of her American drama. She tells you that one of the side characters wins a paid trip to Tuscany, Italy; suddenly your mind flashes with golden eyes because _Isn’t that near Tatsuya’s hometown, or is he from up further, once we said we’d go together_ —

“(Name), you’re bleeding!” shouts Umeko, startled. You look down and realize that you accidentally cut your finger. Your sister rushes off to grab a Band-Aid for you, and you grimace. This is the third time he’s shown up in your mind today.)

Regardless of when, the visits are always unwelcomed, and always difficult to deal with. Once one memory has emerged from where you’ve locked them all away, the rest begin to fight their way to the surface, vicious and unyielding as they rip into your emotional fortitude.

Things start to get much worse in late April. The Dance Club advisor announces right before Golden Week that he’s found a new coach, so the club will resume after the holiday. Which means that now not only is Tatsuya in your mind, but you have to start physically seeing him again frequently. In the past it hadn’t been an issue—the negative emotions you used to feel finally quieted into just a whisper as time passed—but with the recent developments, being around him is much more emotionally taxing than it should be. Tatsuya never speaks to you anymore and rarely looks your way, but you feel hyper aware of his presence. He can be as far away from you as possible in the studio, and it still feels as if he’s by your side, looming. His lilting, accented voice rings in your ears long after you hear him talk; his easy-going smile burns in your memory even if you just catch a glimpse of it; his agile movements etch themselves in your mind as you watch him practice. It all reminds you of a time when everything was much different.

(He moves with such grace, long form moving in tandem with his dance partner. He is elegance incarnate. Strong arms guide her around the studio room, spinning and lifting and pulling her close as the slow, solemn music hums in the background. She looks up at him with such adoration, eyes alight with reverence. You know this look. It used to be on your face a long time ago, back when you mattered. You excuse yourself from the studio and walk the empty hallways, footsteps alone and hollow—a reflection of how you feel.)

The stress gradually begins to get to you. You’re more distracted than normal, and you find it hard to pay attention in class. Your grades are not as good as you want them to be, and you retain only a fraction of information from your daily study marathons. The minimal amount of sleep you get is starting to be interrupted by dreams of a warped past. Sometimes Tatsuya is there, telling you that it’s _your_ fault the two of you didn’t work out, _you’re_ the one who drove the two of you apart, _you_ didn’t trust him enough. Sometimes he’s surrounded by a sea of girls, but when he turns to tell you that you’re overreacting and being paranoid, it’s actually not him—it’s Oikawa, sneering down at you and asking you what your problem is, _I’m not your ex-boyfriend, what happened to your mantra, get it together can you really not tell who’s who—_

And sometimes it’s just you in your dreams, feeling isolated and drained, wondering where it all went wrong: maybe it was you who was the problem after all, no it wasn’t, there’s no way, you didn’t do anything wrong, you had every right to be upset with him, are you sure because maybe you _did_ overreact, it’s not like he really did anything wrong, he never cheated—

When you wake up from these dreams, you feel disoriented. You usually lay in bed for ten minutes, trying to sort it all out. The line between past and present is becoming blurry, reality and imagination mixing together to create its own narrative of what really happened.

You keep telling yourself over and over again that they aren’t the same person. Yes, they are similar, but Oikawa is not the cause of your issues. Oikawa is not Tatsuya. Tatsuya is not Oikawa. _Correlation, not causation, (Name)._

Why isn’t your heart letting go? Why won’t it allow you peace? You’ve long moved on—or have you? You thought you had… but now, you’re not so sure. 

You like to think of yourself as a rather rational and calm person, but the emotional stress is really starting to get to you. And no matter how many times you repeat the mantra— _Oikawa is not Tatsuya, Tatsuya is not Oikawa, correlation, not causation_ —you can’t seem to get your brain and your heart to agree. You’re becoming exhausted, physically and spiritually and emotionally.

And with the fatigue comes a range of emotions: sadness, guilt, confusion... but most of all, a slow-burning, but very intense, Anger. It lingers just below the surface, waiting for the opportune moment—one you’re sure will be incredibly ill-timed—to rear its ugly head. You’re not entirely sure what the primary catalyst of all this is—is it Tatsuya and your past? Is it Oikawa and your current situation? Is it just you, and the fact you can’t seem to control your emotions?

Or is it all of it combined?

_Correlation, not causation. Two separate things._

There are too many thoughts, memories, and feelings. They compound on one another, mixing and swirling to create a muddy, emotional mess.

You’re so tired. 

And it’s only a matter of time before something happens.

* * *

This week in particular hasn’t been kind to you, to say the least.

On Monday, you woke up late after a long night of (unproductive) studying for an upcoming kanji exam, and you had to literally sprint to school in order to avoid being tardy. You made it just in time, but you were still scolded for causing such a ruckus. In addition, your meeting with Oikawa was virtually fruitless; there was an unusually large amount of people who wanted to talk to him, and he spent the majority of the two hours chatting, seemingly not caring that it wasted both of your afternoons.

Tuesday was a little bit better, except you spilt coffee all over your cream-colored sweater vest, and one of your cats threw up on your bed. 

Wednesday passed, and you did very poorly on the kanji exam you spent literal hours studying for over the weekend. You know that it’s easily your weakest subject, but you had never done _this_ poorly before. You also found out halfway through the school day that you were wearing your skirt inside-out; no one bothered to tell you until you were publicly called out during the break by Hachimura-san, the very strict, rule-abiding student council president. (“Fumiko-chan,” you complained to your friend afterward as you hastily changed in the bathroom, “why didn’t you tell me?” Her response was a very nonchalant “Sorry (Name)-chan. I thought you were doing it intentionally, like as a fashion statement or something.” As if _you_ of all people would actually do that.)

On Thursday, Coach Takai, the new dance coach, humiliated you in front of the whole club when he singled you out on your dancing. “You’re (Surname) Umeko’s sister, and you dance like _that_?” he sneered, scowling at you disapprovingly. “Where is the passion, the drive? You look dead. Get it together!” Umeko had warned you that once Takai realized you two were siblings, he would treat you differently—and not in a good way. (“Try not to take whatever he says to you personally,” she said, shrugging. “He's just projecting his issues. That jerk has been jealous of me since high school, and I’m pretty sure he hates me now because I beat him at Nationals for the past three years. It’s not my fault he sucks and I’m a dance goddess.”) Despite her advice, the words stung more than you thought they would. You kept your head down for the rest of the practice, cheeks red with embarrassment. Having Tatsuya there only made it ten times worse, and that night your dreams are filled with his pitied gaze.

So when Friday rolls around, you are expecting to be hit by a cyclist or something with how your luck is going. You try to mentally prepare yourself as best as you can (which isn’t very well—you’re so, _so_ tired), expecting the worst.

But as you go about your day, nothing out of the ordinary happens. Your standard cup of coffee helps propel you through your morning, and lunch with Momo consists of various topics—your best friend says you look like you need a nap that lasts five days, but what’s new; Coffee Breath wasn’t very happy when Momo confronted him about his smell, but he started chewing gum so there’s progress there; rumor has it that Matsukawa-san from the volleyball team is concerned that the school uniform isn’t flattering on him (you don’t think he looks _that_ bad, but Momo disagrees); should you go see that new movie that has terrible reviews, but looks so stupid it might be funny? 

Afternoon classes leave you sleepy—they are your more boring subjects, plus the sunlight wraps around you like a warm hug, comforting and cozy—and by the time the final bell rings, you allow yourself a tiny sigh of relief. Today was _incredibly_ mundane. No one has looked at you, no one has yelled at you, no one has noticed you. You are a wallflower again, and that’s just what you need. Maybe, just maybe, the gods have decided to give you a small respite from all the negativity.

As you walk out of the school gates, you think about your plans for the weekend. You intend on doing virtually nothing for two whole days, using the time to mentally and emotionally recharge as best as you can. This week was hellish; had something happened today, you aren’t really sure if you would have been able to handle it. You want to be in control of your emotions again, and maybe finally taking a break will help. It’s rare that you allow yourself the luxury—but you know you desperately need it, and you’ve been putting it off for way too long.

The sun peeks its way out from behind some clouds, warming your face. You smile genuinely, taking a deep breath of the sweet spring air. _A break._ What a wonderful concept. You really should do it more; but instead of focusing on that, you tell yourself, just be happy that you’re actually giving yourself one. For the first time in weeks, you feel yourself relax just the slightest.

But then a familiar voice calls your name, and you think _Shit_. 

Because of course today can’t go without any interruption. How silly of you to think that it could.

You turn to look at Oikawa, watching as he jogs his way toward you. The brunette offers a smile, and you feel your lips barely twitch upward in a poor attempt to return the greeting. “I tried catching you after class, but you ran off before I could say anything,” he says lightly, head tilted in consideration. “You’re fast. Are you on the track team or something?”

He’s trying to lighten the mood—why he feels the need to always do so, you don’t know. Today in particular you find that you just don’t have the energy to deal with it (or anything), so you cut straight to the chase. “Can I help you?” you ask. Your voice sounds so flat and cold, even to your ears.

Oikawa’s grin stays on his face, but you catch the way his eyes darken just the slightest at your response. As always, however, he remains seemingly unbothered. He puts his hands in his pockets, leaning back. “I know it’s only been like three weeks since we started meeting, so sorry for switching it up so soon,” he starts, “but I was wondering if it’s possible we could find another time to work on our project? My little nephew’s volleyball club starts up next Monday; I promised him I’d help out. Hard to say no after he asked for the thirtieth time.”

The comment is snarky, but you catch the fondness in Oikawa’s tone. You blink, caught a little off-guard. You had pinned him as self-serving— _correlation, not causation, (Name), two separate people_ —so his reason surprises you, but in a pleasant way. It’s not like he’s done anything astounding, but it’s nice to have a feeling towards your partner that’s not indifference, bitterness, or annoyance. The tiniest of smiles flits on your face, your guard coming down just the slightest. “That’s fine,” you respond. “When do you—”

“Oikawa-kun!”

The call is loud and borderline shrill, easily drowning out your softer voice. Two girls rush towards Oikawa, eyes alight and cheeks flushed. They’re so focused on the brunette that they don’t even seem to notice you—or if they _do_ see you, they don’t care. They plant themselves right in front of him, a makeshift wall separating you and your partner. One girl almost steps on your foot, and you take a step back. Oikawa’s eyes flit to you quickly, but he doesn’t have enough time to speak before the girls start spewing compliments and chatter and _you were so cool the other day—_

You don’t know what it is about this particular moment, but as you look at the girls’ backs, your emotional fortitude begins to crumble. Maybe it’s because this week has been really bad, or maybe it’s just all of the weeks combined have left you barely hanging on. Maybe it’s the fact that your already-weakened guard was down, and it doesn’t have enough time to throw itself back up. Regardless of the reasoning, the Anger that’s been manifesting deep inside sees that you’re vulnerable. It strikes; with a mighty roar, it breaks from its chains, free.

This horrible thing—vicious and terrible and ready to wreak havoc—has bode its time well, waiting patiently for this exact moment. It saw its opportunity, it attacked, and it won. And now it begins to take over.

Pandora’s Box opens.

( ** _“Tatsuya-san!” a girl shouts. Tatsuya turns to look behind at the pretty blonde running up to him. Her eyes are shiny and her cheeks have a healthy glow, a bright smile on her face. You watch as Tatsuya’s face immediately morphs into that same Easy Smile you’ve seen a thousand times before._**

 **_You don’t see much else as the girl accidentally (?) knocks into you, forcing you to take a step back as she places herself right in front of him, a makeshift barrier to separate you two. Tatsuya looks at you worriedly, but doesn’t have any time to speak as she begins to talk rapidly about how she’s been wanting to talk to him for a while and_ ** **you look so cool in dance, you’re so graceful—**

**_You just stare at her back, saying nothing.)_ **

“We won’t take much of your time because I know you have volleyball soon, but we just wanted to give you this.” One holds out a small item wrapped in cellophane. “We made some milk bread in home economics together, a-and since it’s your favorite, we thought you might like it…”

Immediately that familiar Easy Smile slips up onto Oikawa’s face as he takes the gift from her outstretched hands. “Ah, how did you know? Thanks so much~”

**_(“I-I know you’re busy, but we made this in class today. I thought you might like it… Please enjoy.”_ **

**_“This is my favorite! Thanks so much—that’s so kind of you.”)_ **

Oikawa waves goodbye as the girls run off as quickly as they came, the façade dropping as soon as he turns back to you. He takes one look at your face and blinks in surprise, obviously taken aback by your expression. You’re not sure what you look like, but you know it’s not pretty. His eyes flit down to your clenched fists. You didn’t even know you had balled them. “Are you okay?” he asks, voice tinged with the slightest hint of wariness.

**_(“Are you okay? What’s with that look, (Name)?”)_ **

“Just fine,” you lie, voice gruff. “When do you want to start meeting?”

Oikawa’s eyes sharpen, irises hardening, but he doesn’t push. “I was thinking about Wednesday nights after volleyball practice if that’s not too la—”

“Great. Bye,” you say, cutting him off. You turn on your heel, swiftly walking away. You’re going the wrong way—you’re supposed to be meeting Momo at the café soon—but you don’t care. You can feel yourself buzzing with irritation. You just need a moment to collect yourself so you can keep pretending that _everything’s fine, I’m fine, nothing’s wrong—_

You hear footsteps following you, and you internally scream. The world begins to turn red.

“Are you _sure_ you’re okay?” Oikawa asks from behind. “Did something happen?”

**_(“Why do you look so angry? Nothing happened.”)_ **

You can’t help it; you speak before you can think. “Why do you care?” you snap. The footsteps pause. You take the opportunity to move your legs even faster, trying to put as much space between the two of you as you can. _I just need a moment, and then I’ll be fine again—_

Oikawa catches up to you easily, your hurried pace proving no match for the full strides of his long legs. A hand wraps around your wrist gently, urging you to stop.

“Hey, wait—” 

**_(“Wait, (Name), just listen—”)_ **

You rip your hand away, scowling. Out of the corner of your eye, you swear that Oikawa’s brown hair turns a shade darker—

It seems as this point Oikawa has had enough. His hand shoots out to grab at your wrist again; it’s not painful, but firm enough to force you to stop this time. You try to pull away, but Oikawa’s grip just tightens. “Let go,” you growl, narrowing your eyes even further.

The brunette ignores you, leaning down to look you in the eye. His eyes burn openly with ire—he’s not trying to hide his aggravation anymore. “Want to tell me what your problem is?” he asks darkly, voice low.

 **_(“What’s your problem? I didn’t_ ** **do _anything—”)_**

“Let go,” you repeat again. Your heart pounds rapidly in your chest, fueled by fury. The anger relishes in the power it has over you. It tightens the reins even further, propelling you further down, down, down…

“Tell me what your deal is first,” Oikawa states, scowling. “You’ve been angry at me for no reason since we started this stupid project, and I’m sick of it.”

**_(“Why are you like this? You’ve been upset at me for no reason recently. I’ve told you so many times you don’t need to worry, and I’m getting tired of having to say it over and over again—”)_ **

You scoff, laughing cynically. Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but you’re convinced Oikawa’s brown eyes shift to a honey-brown for a split second. “ _Of course_ you think it’s about you,” you say, voice acidic. “Have you thought that maybe, I dunno, you’re just being self-centered? Not everything is about you, you know.”

 **_(“Tatsuya, have you ever thought about how_ ** **I _feel? It’s not all about you, you know!”)_**

Oikawa’s eyes narrow dangerously. His hand tightens on your wrist, fingers digging into your skin. “I have done literally nothing to you but try to make this work—”

**_(“I’ve done nothing but be loving and try to make this work—”)_ **

“ _This?_ There is no _this_.”

“We’re _partners._ Like it or not, we have to work together for the rest of the year—"

**_(“We’re a team, and right now you’re being so uncooperative—”)_ **

“—and your cold and rude attitude has been pissing me off—” 

**_(“—and you’ve been so cynical and uptight_ ** **_, and it’s really aggravating me_ ** **_—”)_ **

“—because I’ve done _nothing_ to deserve this—”

 **_(“—because I’ve done_ ** **nothing _to deserve this—”)_**

You can’t take it anymore. “You know what my problem is? You!” you snap. “ _You’re_ my problem! I can’t _stand_ people like you—conceited, manipulative, self-centered users!”

Somewhere deep inside your brain is yelling at you, telling you to calm down— _Correlation, not causation!_ —but you can’t be reasoned with at this point. The Anger takes over completely, pushing all logic and sensibility out of the way.

_Causation, correlation._

_Same person._

_They are the same person._

Golden eyes, chocolate eyes; brown hair, black hair—who are you even looking at anymore? 

“You don’t know me,” he growls, eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. But you do. This person is responsible for everything wrong. Just when you thought you were moving he’s here again, using people and wrecking your emotions and making you feel like you’re going crazy—

“Yes, I _do_!” you seethe. And then the words you’ve been holding back for two years begin to flow out, rapid and unyielding. “I know _exactly_ the type of guy you are. You put on this—this fake _Nice Guy_ act to get people to like you, and it _works_. Girls love you and guys want to be you, everyone wants to be your friend and talk to you because you’re just the _perfect guy_ even though it’s all an act, because in reality, you are just conceited and want people to stroke your ego. You do whatever it takes to keep your image up so you can get whatever you want without _any_ regard or care for _anyone_ else, because you get the attention you want but don’t deserve, and _you only think of yourself_ —”

“It’s not like I ask—"

_“That’s not the point, Tatsuya!”_

His name leaves your lips before you can even think.

Time stops.

The silence that follows is absolutely deafening. Tatsuya fades away like a whisper, leaving a stunned Oikawa in his stead. Very slowly, the brunette uncurls his fingers from your wrist, letting go; your arm flops uselessly to your side as you stare blankly at the ground, trying to process what just occurred. The Anger, satisfied with the damage it caused, has dissipated into nothingness, leaving you feeling hollow and confused and utterly horrified. The world begins to tilt, and there’s a ringing in your ears that becomes so loud you can barely hear your own thoughts.

_“You’re my problem! I can’t stand people like you!”_

_“You do whatever it takes to keep your image up so you can get whatever you want without any regard or care for anyone else—”_

_“That’s not the point, Tatsuya!”_

Oh God.

_Correlation, not causation, (Name)._

Tears quickly begin to fill your eyes, threatening to spill over. You open your mouth to speak, but you have no words. You want—no, _need_ —to explain yourself to Oikawa, but right now every fiber of your being is telling you to run, go hide, you can’t deal with this right now. And although you’ve been dead wrong the vast majority of these past few weeks, you know with absolute certainty that this feeling you have right now is completely true. You _can’t_ deal with this. 

So you forsake any ounce of tattered honor you may have left and take the coward’s way out. “I need to go,” you whisper. You turn away from your partner and begin to run down the street, for once not caring how stupid you look or how many stares you’re getting. All you care about is being absolutely and utterly alone right now.

This time, no one follows.

* * *

Oikawa frowns as he watches as you run off, not bothering to pursue. He knows you need space and he’s more than happy to give it to you. After all, the last thing he wants to do is continue to interact with you right now after such a disastrous encounter.

He is infuriated, but things make a bit more sense. He has been trying to figure you out (more specifically, your overt issue with him) for weeks to almost no avail, and finally he has _some_ clarity. It’s like a puzzle—Oikawa has clicked that last piece of the border in place; now he just needs to fill the inside. But of course that’s always the hardest part.

The captain doesn’t know who this Tatsuya fellow is, but obviously he did something to really upset you. Oikawa finds he’s disinterested in whatever string of events occurred to make you so disturbed, nor does he care what your relationship with this guy is; what he _does_ care about, however, is that you’re taking your problems out on him. It’s absolutely uncalled for. _User, manipulative, conceited, self-centered_ —how rude.

Oikawa’s phone buzzes; it’s a text from Makki, asking him where he is. The brunette checks the time and utters a small curse as he realizes practice starts in ten minutes. He slips his phone in his bag, right next to the homemade milk bread that served as a catalyst for this whole drama. A scowl mars Oikawa’s face as he turns to walk back to school, not bothering to hurry. He’ll just take the punishment and run a few extra laps, and of course Iwa-chan will bitch at him. _But what’s new_ , he thinks dryly. 

_“You know what my problem is? You! You’re my problem! I can’t stand people like you!”_

“Shit,” Oikawa murmurs, scowl deepening. He kicks at a spare rock, scuffing his shoe. He doesn’t want to think about anything related to you right now, but your heated words keep circling in his head, reappearing no matter how many times he pushes them away. Your face was so expressive, so full of a range of emotions—anger, frustration, heartbreak, guilt, weariness… The list goes on. They all looked so foreign on your normally impassive face. It was almost impressive that you were able to exude so many emotions at one time. Too bad it was all aimed at him.

_“—because you get the attention you want but don’t deserve, and you only think of yourself—”_

“It’s not like I _ask_ for any of it,” Oikawa mutters darkly. And it’s true. The recognition has always been there. It’s been exemplified for sure since he got to high school, but he never _asked_ for it. It just comes with the territory of being a handsome, talented athlete. 

_“—you are just conceited and want people to stroke your ego—”_

_You don’t know me_ , Oikawa thinks, scowl deepening. _You don’t know me at all._

Your rant was baseless, fueled by your own personal issues. None of the insults you threw are new to him; he has heard them and much worse before. Envy and insecurity bring out the worst in everyone. Oikawa wouldn’t say he has a super thick skin, but he knows that words said by virtual strangers (like you) need to be taken with a grain of salt, or just brushed off completely. People say things they don’t mean to say all the time.

_“Girls love you and guys want to be you, everyone wants to be your friend and talk to you because you’re just the perfect guy even though it’s all an act—”_

Why is he so bothered? You’re not special by any means. He doesn’t care about you. Your opinion means literally nothing to him.

So why can’t he get you out of his head?

_“You know what my problem is? You! You’re my problem!”_

So much for being easy to work with. He doesn’t have _time_ for this kind of unnecessary bullshit. He has too many things to worry about, and it’s already hard enough as it is to manage it all. He does not want nor need this added drama. 

_“I can’t stand people like you—conceited, manipulative, self-centered users!”_

Oikawa scoffs, irritation rising to new heights. He turns the corner and Aoba Johsai comes into view. Students still trickle out of the main gates, smiling and laughing with their friends. Many see him and wave, wishing him a good weekend. The Pleasant Mask slips up onto the captain’s face despite the simmering rage underneath, smile easy as he waves back and thanks them for the well wishes.

_“You put on this—this fake Nice Guy act to get people to like you—”_

The team is going to have to receive some hard-hitting serves tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As mentioned at the beginning notes, I lost all of my pre-written chapters. For some reason my document was saved in my downloads folder (why???? Beats me). I moved my downloads to the trash to make space for some work stuff and permanently deleted everything, not realizing the document was there. Then two days later, I tried to open it up in Word... and SURPRISE! Gone. With no backups. fuck my life.
> 
> It's no one's fault but my own and luckily it was only four chapters (one of which needed to be completely rewritten), but MAN I was (am) devastated. So this chapter ended up being ~nothing~ like what it originally was. Sorry if it's shit and didn't make much sense. Much like the Reader in the chapter, I am a hot mess, and I need sleep.
> 
> But at least Haikyuu Season 4 and the OVAs is out!!! :D


	4. The Olive Branch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Forgiveness does not change the past, but it does enlarge the future.”_ – Paul Boese

After blowing up at Oikawa on Friday, you call Momo without really thinking of the repercussions. You meant to just let her know you wouldn’t make it to the café, but you’re so emotionally spent that your words end up being an incoherent string of syllables, jumbled and confusing.

She immediately picks up that something’s wrong and begins asking questions, which scatters your thoughts even more. After such an emotional explosion, your mind is mush; articulating anything meaningful just isn’t possible. After a few seconds of struggling to form consistent sentences and her not understanding (“(Name)-chan,” your friend tries to tell you amidst your blabbering, “please calm down—are you even speaking Japanese? Or is this English?”), you hang up in frustration, hating everything—your outburst, your vulnerability, and now your lack of clarity.

By the time you rush home, you have three missed calls, one voicemail, and five messages from Momo. She is obviously very alarmed by your conversation (or lack thereof), and you can’t blame her; although you have your moments, being so emotional is definitely not your norm. But what _is_ typical for you, however, is avoiding all the questions when you don’t want to explain yourself—and right now, you just want to go upstairs and hide from the world. So instead of calling her back to clarify anything, you just send a short text:

 **You:** _sorry, will talk later. need to clear head_

You quickly read her unread messages and add:

 **You:** _d_ _on’t worry, I’m okay. was not captured by yakuza._

Momo responds immediately with a sticker of two pandas hugging.

 **Sato Momo:** _o_ _kay, ttyl. xoxoxo_

You spend your weekend holed up in your house, avoiding human contact as much as possible. Other than a checkup message a few hours post-call, Momo doesn’t reach out to you all weekend. You know that it’s not because she doesn’t care—she is probably at home, itching to call to see how you are doing (and also to know what happened)—but she knows how you deal with your problems. You are the type of person who needs space when things go awry; you like to process things at your own speed, hating the unsolicited advice people give when you aren’t ready to have opinions thrown every which way. When you are ready to talk, you will. And as much as Momo complains about this trait of yours, she (generally) respects it.

Umeko is thankfully away in Tokyo for a dance competition, which means that the only people you have to deal with are your oblivious parents. They both have just come back from a trip to America—as international businesspeople, they travel frequently for their jobs—and the jetlag is very real, which means they are too tired to notice something’s wrong. When your mom sees your puffy eyes on Saturday (an unfortunate side effect of crying the day before), she doesn’t put two and two together, and merely says in English, “Make sure you’re not getting sick, honey—oh, I’m still speaking English! Silly me. Too much time in America…” Your dad merely nods in agreement and asks you to make him a cup of coffee, even though it’s nine o’clock at night.

Being alone means that you have time to brood over your behavior, and _brood_ you do. The Disastrous Encounter replays over and over in your head like a broken record. You force yourself to face the music, and the stuff you composed isn’t pretty. You are absolutely mortified by your actions. The guilt is so overwhelming that you frequently mash your face into your pillow, screaming at your own stupidity. You are angry that you allowed yourself to be so biased toward someone you know essentially nothing about. You want nothing more than to blame someone else for your conduct, but you know there is no one except yourself to fault— _maybe_ Tatsuya, but then you’d be doing the exact same thing he did to you two years prior: pointing blame instead of owning up to your own personal insecurity. And you’re better than that.

Surprisingly, not everything turns out to be negative. Now that you got it all out of your system, your thoughts aren’t clouded anymore. The purge leaves you able to think rationally, your brain once again taking over now that your heart has had its fun. Your emotional fortitude begins to stitch itself back up, picking up the pieces that the Anger tore apart; it works quickly and efficiently, stabilizing itself with each metaphorical brick laid.

Tatsuya still enters your mind, but his presence starts getting fainter, less prominent. His memory is pushed back into its cage—never fully gone, but contained once again. The distinction between him and Oikawa is glaringly obvious now, a sharp divide that you wish had been there from the start—had it been, _all_ of this could have been avoided. But life never works the way you want it to, and now you’re left with a dumpster fire.

On Monday, you know that you won’t be able to avoid the situation any longer. In the morning Momo stops by with a fancy latte in hand, something she always does when she wants to cheer you up. The storms that blew through the area during the weekend (very fitting, considering your mood) have been replaced by sunshine and cooler temperatures, so the two of you opt to walk to school rather than take public transpo. Even though Momo chatters about menial things—she ended up going to see that stupid movie and it’s so _not_ worth it; her new camera lens came in, and she’s excited to experiment with it; her neighbor’s dog just wouldn’t shut up last night and so she’s running on little sleep—you can feel her eyes on you the whole time, waiting. But you stay silent, sipping your latte slowly and deliberately. She doesn’t push, even though you can feel the curiosity practically radiating from her.

When Oikawa walks into homeroom, you know you should do something. You know you owe him an apology; you know that you need to explain your actions. The tiny speech you prepared the night before is on your tongue; you tell yourself that once he sits down, you’re going to go right up to him and apologize. But then his gaze sweeps across the room and lands on you for the tiniest of seconds, and all of your determination instantly vanishes. Your body goes on autopilot, and you do possibly the worst thing that you could do at that exact moment: shove a textbook in your face to avoid the brunette’s stare.

You cringe into the pages, mentally kicking yourself. _(Name), you’re such a coward,_ you think. When you pull the book away tentatively, Oikawa has sat down and is chatting easily with some of your fellow classmates. He doesn’t look your way again. You’re back to being nonexistent to him, and you have a feeling it’s going stay that way until you make steps to mend what you broke. You don’t know at first whether to feel relieved or bothered that he’s ignoring you; but when you catch yourself glancing at him for the umpteenth time, you realize that the latter is increasingly becoming the prominent emotion.

Fumiko joins you and Momo for lunch today—she will do so occasionally, provided she finishes all of her extra homework for cram school (which she always procrastinates on, being the lazy genius she is)—so you don’t have to worry too much about Momo’s expectant gaze being focused on you the whole time. Unfortunately, however, lunchtime is a time for gossip; all topics are fair game, including the last thing you want to talk about: your partner.

(“(Name)-chan, how is working with Oikawa-kun?” asks Fumiko innocently. She doesn’t catch the way you stiffen, but Momo does. The latter stays silent, watching you with observant eyes.

“It’s… something,” you say, voice a little muted.

“I was really hoping to be partnered with him,” Fumiko continues, sighing. “He seems so smart and diligent—you must have it so easy.”

Easy. _If only_ , you think, grimacing. “I guess.”

Fumiko opens her mouth to say more, but Momo mercifully steps in. “Fucchan, how’s it going for you?” she asks. You breathe a silent sigh of relief, grateful to be out of the hotseat.

“Iwasaki-kun is rather dumb, but at least he’s trying,” Fumiko concedes, humming contemplatively. “He’s started asking me for help in other subjects, which I don’t mind, but it’s so much _work_. And you know how much I hate that. I find that if I can relate everything to baseball he gets it, but otherwise…”

“At least he’s trying and being proactive,” grumbles Momo. “My partner and I have barely done anything yet.”

“True… Guess getting partnered with him wasn’t the worst thing.”

You catch the small, shy smile on Fumiko’s face. “Bet you 500 yen you’ll end up dating by the end of the year,” you say.

Fumiko makes some flustered noise and furrows her eyebrows, glasses shining menacingly in the light. “As _if_.”

“Then bet on it.”

“Fine. You’re on.”

“Ooh, ooh, I want to get on this too!” exclaims Momo.)

After school Momo insists that you two go to the nearby playground to “celebrate the bright sun and warming mid-May weather,” even though you know there’s more to it than than. As you settle on the swings—Momo takes no time pushing herself back-and-forth, while you just rock slightly and toe at the mulch—you decide it’s finally time to address the elephant in the room.

“So…” you start.

“So,” echoes Momo. Based on your conversation during lunch, you surmise that she already has an idea of what—or rather _who_ —upset you on Friday. She looks at you expectantly, gray eyes large and curious.

You sigh deeply, taking the pause to prepare yourself for the journey ahead, and hesitantly begin telling your tale. As you talk, snapshots appear in your mind—you see the way Oikawa’s gaze narrows dangerously, how he finally loses his composure; how his handsome face is marred by a nasty scowl as he absorbs your words; how his eyes fly open in surprise when you call him Tatsuya. Your shame becomes heavier and heavier the more you continue, and by the end of it, it feels as though you have cinderblocks pressing down on your shoulders. Remembering how you acted earlier today only makes it worse.

At some point in your narrative, Momo stops swinging. When you look up after you’ve finished, she’s staring at you with wide eyes. She looks dumbfounded, expression a mix of shock and sympathy. The latter makes you cringe.

The brunette opens her mouth to speak. All that comes out is “Wow.”

For some reason this bothers you, and you find yourself going on the defensive. “Listen, I already know—I screwed up, I overreacted, I should have known better—”

Momo cuts you off. “Stop that. That’s not important right now.” Her voice is sharp and assertive, a rare tone that you seldom hear from her. She leans toward you. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” _No._

“Are you being honest?” She narrows her eyes, seeing through your lie immediately.

You sigh again, shoulders slumping. “I don’t know what happened…” you mutter miserably. “I just snapped. It’s like I was teleported back two years ago. Oikawa-san kept speaking, and all I could hear was Tatsuya.” You smirk dryly, looking at your friend sidelong. “Am I going crazy?”

Momo’s grin reflects your own. “Aren’t we all?” she murmurs before sighing herself. She runs a hand through her short hair, scratching the back of her head. “Wow. Okay.”

“I know. It’s all so dramatic, right? It sounds like something out of a shitty fanfiction.”

She ignores your quip, contemplating. “In a weird, twisted way, you blowing up kind of… makes sense? Obviously it was grossly misplaced, but…” She tilts her head at you. “You never really got any closure with Tatsuya, did you?”

You look down at the soggy mulch, shaking your head. “No. After we broke up, everything just kind of… stopped. We still tried working together for a bit because of dance, but I just… couldn’t deal, you know?”

The split from Tatsuya was not clean. As the two of you were dance partners—and had been for almost a whole whopping _decade_ —you still tried to keep a professional relationship for the sake of the sport. Needless to say, it did not work. It felt like trying to make a jigsaw piece fit even after it had been mangled and disfigured, borderline unusable. Despite both your brain _and_ heart saying it wasn’t a good idea, you kept pushing. After weeks of telling yourself that everything was fine ( _it will get better tomorrow, (Name), just keep moving forward_ ), something in you just broke. You went to your coach in tears, not knowing what to do. She had immediately swapped you over to Haruto-kun, your current dance mate, and told you not to worry about the rest. After that, Tatsuya never approached you again. You still to this day don’t know what she said to him—and now that she’s retired and not even in the prefecture anymore, the chance you’ll ever find out is slim to none—but maybe not knowing is for the better.

“I remember.” Momo reaches over to squeeze your hand, the gesture kind and comforting. She has always been rather affectionate compared to the typical Japanese youth. Sometimes you do think it’s a little unnecessary, but in moments like these, it’s appreciated. “No one can blame you for what happened, you know.”

“But _I_ blamed me,” you say, sighing deeply. Although the pain from the breakup has mostly faded, you sometimes catch yourself wondering if things could have turned out differently. Would you and Tatsuya still be together had you been more outspoken from the beginning? Had you not originally just brushed everything aside, thinking that you needed to be the supportive girlfriend—which, in your naïve mind, translated as being okay with the massive amounts of attention he got—would he have been more understanding of where you were coming from? What about if you hadn’t expressed reservations about publicizing that you two were together? (Was it really that big of a deal to want a little bit of privacy, _especially_ because you were concerned about how the other girls would react? He had always been popular—was it that far-fetched for you to be apprehensive?) Had you stood by him and shouted, “Hey everyone, he’s _mine!_ ” would girls have still flocked to him? Would they even have treated you differently, like you were so worried about?

A pair of hands reach over to pinch your cheeks, pulling hard. The sharp pain pulls you out of your reverie, and you immediately bat Momo away, scowling at her. “What the hell!”

She scowls right back, eyes narrowed sternly. “I know what’s going through your head, and I’m _not_ allowing you to think like that again, okay? It. Was. Not. Your. Fault.” She slaps your arm with each word.

You smack her hands away again, immediately ready to argue—but then you catch yourself, because Momo is right. You were starting to tumble down the same rabbit hole you’ve been down many times in the past. It always seems harmless enough at first, but the further you go, the more you get sucked into the same regrets, same what-ifs. You shut your mouth, nodding mutely. “Sorry,” you say. You’re not really sure why you’re apologizing.

Momo doesn’t seem to know, either. “What’re you sorry for?” she asks, leaning back in her swing to look at the sky. “We’re best friends. It’s my job to fight anyone who tries to harm you, even if that person is yourself.”

Momo often says odd things that make sense in principle, but are never worded quite right. Regardless of that, however, she is always sincere, and you can’t help but feel grateful to have a friend like her. You smile warmly, and she returns the gesture.

“Speaking of fighting, my offer to kick Tatsuya in the shins still stands, you know,” she tells you. “Just like Spam, it doesn’t have an expiry date.”

“Two things—Spam totally has an expiration date, and why are you so violent today?” You laugh as Momo shrugs noncommittedly. “It’s been two years, Momo-chan. I’m pretty sure if you just went up and randomly kicked him now, he’d be none the wiser. Plus do you _really_ want incur even more wrath from that vengeful spirit that’s following you around by being a bad person? If that’s the case, maybe I should have bet that _you’d_ end up dating Coffee Breath, not Fumiko-chan and her guy.”

“Don’t put that thought out into the universe!” shouts Momo, throwing a hand in your direction. She quickly adds, “Plus, would it _really_ be me being a bad person when Tatsuya deserves it?”

You roll your eyes, smirking. “You’re being dramatic again.”

“Am I?” she asks flatly. “I don’t think so.”

While you never condone violence in any capacity, you do understand where Momo’s anger comes from. Tatsuya never did anything like _cheat_ , but never making any real moves to stop all the attention despite being taken—instead _relishing_ in the doting—and making you feel bad for feeling insecure about it all… Intentional or not, it was just a shitty boyfriend move. But you guess that’s what happens when an immature fourteen- and fifteen-year-old try to manage a situation that not even some adults handle well.

You decide to wrap up the subject, knowing that Momo could argue about the ethics of kicking Tatsuya for hours. “Like I said, it happened a long time ago.” Come August, it will have really been two years—amazing how time flies, yet things still refuse to change. “I’m good now. This… _blowup_ was just a freak occurrence. Won’t happen again.”

(Calling what happened a “blowup” and “freak occurrence” feels a little like an understatement, but undershooting it seems to be the right choice for now.)

Momo looks at you for a long minute, and you read the unspoken words in her eyes— _Are you really good?_ But your resolution never wavers, and eventually your friend concedes with a sigh. “Just take care of yourself,” she says. “You know I tell you all the time, but you never do.”

You sigh silently, shoulders slumping just the slightest. This is another argument Momo will never win—sure, you don’t take the _best_ care of yourself, but honestly what third year does? She still never stops reminding you, though. “Got it, Mom.” You salute sarcastically.

The brunette ignores your remark and says, “So what are you going to do about your current situation? It’s quite a pickle.”

You turn grim, thinking about those angry chocolate eyes again. “I don’t know,” you mutter. “He seemed really upset.”

“Well… yeah. Can you blame him, though? You called him—what? A user, manipulative, self-centered…”

Each word feels like a punch in the stomach, and you cringe. “I didn’t really mean it.”

“He doesn’t know that.”

Your hands tighten on the links of the swing’s chain, the cool metal pressing into your palms. “I know… I feel really bad.” That’s an understatement if you’ve ever heard one.

“Then apologize.” Momo says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

You don’t bother telling her about your embarrassing attempt this morning—if it can even be called that—nor do you mention that you thought of texting him sorry over the weekend (not that _that_ would have gone well, either— _Hey sorry I called you all these names see you reminded me of my ex who was an ass, and maybe you’re not really one but you_ kiiiiinda _act like it so I judged you lol whoops sorry my b_ ).

“That’s the plan. I just need to find the right time,” you murmur. _And not be such a coward_.

Suddenly Momo gives you a grin that can only be described as shit-eating. “Heh, what’s this~? Could it be that Princess (Name) is _nervous_ to talk to Oikawa-kun, and _I’m_ the calm one? My my, how the tables have turned.”

You roll your eyes, ignoring the princess comment. “I have reason to be nervous; I don’t know if he’ll accept my apology. If he doesn’t, then the next”—you count on your fingers—“ _seven_ months are going to be really awkward. And you know Morita-sensei isn’t going to let anyone switch.”

“Trust me, I know. He got really angry at me when I asked.” Momo at least has the decency to look sheepish. She sobers up a bit, contemplative. “Do you want my advice?”

“Sure.” Might as well hear it. It’s not like anything she could suggest could exacerbate the situation more.

So she tells you. “I think the longer you wait to talk to Oikawa-kun, the worse it will be in the long run. I also think you’re worrying too much about the hypotheticals. Yes, it’s a bad situation; yes, you judged him unfairly; yes, he’s rightfully angry—but you said what you said, and you can’t take it back. The most you can do at this point is genuinely apologize and hope that he understands. Which he will… I think.”

You’re very aware that Momo’s view of Oikawa is skewed. But then again, so was (is?) yours. Who knows how he’ll react once you finally muster up the courage to apologize. But your friend’s words are sincere and wise, and you can tell that she fully believes he will forgive you.

If only you could be so confident.

* * *

If he’s honest, Oikawa wasn’t expecting to see you show up to his Wednesday practice. But there you are, looking uncomfortable, awkward, and out-of-place in the mezzanine. Seeing you annoys him, and the fact that his next serve goes into the net because of it pisses him off even more.

Although the original ire Oikawa felt on Friday has reduced itself immensely, he’s still angry at you—and rightfully so. It’s been five days since your meltdown, and you haven’t made any motion to apologize. On Monday morning it looked like you might have had the decency to speak to him, but the second his eyes met yours, you shoved your face in a book—upside-down, might he add; were you even aware?—and that was that. Since then, it seems like you borderline go out of your way to avoid him. You are the first to leave class during the breaks, running off to who knows where; you’re also the last to arrive back, head down as you scurry to your desk before the teacher arrives. When Oikawa comes into morning homeroom, you’re always _conveniently_ looking elsewhere—either you have your head bent over some homework, you’re looking out the window, or you’re chatting with Fumiko-chan in the corner of the room. After class, you zip away to whatever club you’re apart of before anyone even notices you’re gone.

You’re not even trying to be discreet about avoiding him anymore. Oikawa can try to convince himself that he’s not bothered (as he’s been telling himself for the past month), but it’s not true. He can’t deny it anymore. You trouble him, _a lot_. The brunette doesn’t know what makes him feel more annoyed—the fact that you haven’t given him the apology he deserves, or the fact that he’s fixated on it. Or maybe it’s because he can’t figure out for the life of him why you disconcert him so much.

He knows it’s immature of him, but Oikawa can’t help but feel a little smug when Mattsun fails to properly receive his next serve and the balls ricochets, narrowly avoiding hitting you in the mezzanine. The sleepy-eyed blocker tells him to ease up (“Warn me next time you go zero to one hundred, dude!” to which Coach Mizoguchi shouts, “You should always be prepared for anything, Matsukawa!”). Oikawa gives a flippant “Sorry, sorry~” that he doesn’t mean.

No one seems to notice the captain’s souring mood except for Iwa-chan. He has been aware of Oikawa’s nasty disposition since its genesis, and keeps getting increasingly more agitated the more the setter brushes him off. Oikawa is expecting him to say something, but instead the ace merely stays silent, watching with narrowed eyes. When Oikawa looks up (it’s subconscious, and he scowls when he catches himself doing it), you have disappeared from sight. You do not reappear again.

Oikawa’s mood worsens after practice when Mattsun comes into the club room and says to him, “That cute girl you almost nailed with your serve is outside. She asked if you were still here. She looks nervous.” He sighs and runs a hand through his thick dark hair. “Why is it only you that gets all the attention? So not fair.”

“Yeah, like you don’t have enough fangirls as it is,” quips Makki with a smirk.

Oikawa’s not in the mood to joke around right now. “She’s not one,” he responds, frowning. In fact, you’re probably the farthest thing possible from a fangirl. He zips up his bag, unintentionally using a little bit more force than necessary.

“Isn’t she your partner for that stupid economics project?” asks Iwa-chan.

The frown deepens. “Yes.” _Unfortunately_.

After he’s done changing, Oikawa descends the stairs to see you sitting on the nearby bench. Mattsun was right—you look uneasy. In fact, you look like you’d rather be anywhere else but there. You’re hunched over slightly, looking at the ground near your feet. Your hands are busying themselves by fiddling with the hem of the black jacket you’re wearing, something Oikawa immediately pinpoints as a nervous tick. You look up when you hear footsteps; when you see him watching you coolly, your eyes flit away. The brunette refrains from sneering. If it’s just going to be a repeat of the past few days, why are you even here?

He says a quick goodnight to the others before walking away. You wordlessly trail after him, even though neither of you ever established a new destination for your meetings. Oikawa decides he’ll just go to his house—if you follow, you follow; if you don’t, you don’t. He can feel his teammates’ curious stares on his back, probably wondering where the sudden, palpable tension came from, but no one says anything. Oikawa is sure that he’ll be asked about it at morning practice tomorrow—or maybe even tonight via group chat if someone’s inquisitive enough—but for now they let him be, leaving him to deal with your miserable company.

The walk to Oikawa’s house is incredibly tense, the heavy silence looming over the two of you like a thick, suffocating fog. The atmosphere is rife with unease. There’s a tiny part of Oikawa that feels the urge to try to placate the apprehensive mood—it’s an automatic response after years of using the Pleasant Mask, his People Pleaser mode—but he tells himself _no_ , there’s no need for him to do anything. He never did anything wrong to begin with; y _ou’re_ the one who has the problem, not him. It’s up to you to make things better. The ball is in your court—actually, it never left your side to begin with.

Oikawa doesn’t have to look at you to know you’re feeling self-conscious. The insecure energy practically rolls off of you in waves, fueling the strained environment. It’s childish and nasty of him, but he can’t help but think _Good_. You should feel bad.

_“That’s not the point, Tatsuya!”_

The thought makes his resolution falter slightly.

Fifteen minutes into the twenty-minute walk—fifteen minutes of absolute silence, fifteen minutes of unease, fifteen minutes of growing annoyance because _is it really that difficult to apologize_ —you finally break the stillness. There’s a shaky inhale, followed by the smallest of pauses, before your soft voice rings through the air. “You know how they say ‘Never judge a book by its cover,’ right?”

Yes, he does. But he doesn’t tell you that. Oikawa doesn’t respond, merely continuing to stare straight ahead disinterestedly.

He feels your confidence stumble a little from his (lack of) response, probably wondering if it’s worth continuing to talk if he stays uncooperative. To your credit, however, you trudge on. There’s another unsteady breath. “Well… I did just that. And I’m… I’m very sorry.”

The footsteps stop and there’s a rustling of fabric. When Oikawa turns his head to look back at you, he’s surprised to see you in a very deep, very sincere bow. Your hair falls in a curtain around your face, hiding your expression; your hands, although held properly at your sides, are clutched into tight, white-knuckled fists—the only physical indication of how tense you are. The captain blinks and slows his pace, coming to a stop as he now turns completely to face you. He still stays silent, curious to know if you have more to say.

You pull up from your bow but don’t look at him, opting to stare at the ground. Now that Oikawa can see your face clearly, he sees how troubled you look—your eyebrows are furrowed, eyes are clouded over, lips are pulled back into a grimace. Your hands begins to fiddle again with your jacket, pulling at a stray thread that wasn’t there before. When you begin to speak the words come fast, tumbling out like a waterfall. “I was completely out-of-place with what I said. I had a… bad… _experience_ in the past”—you visibly wince, something Oikawa’s not sure you’re aware that you did—“and I let it cloud my judgement. What I said… was not about you. Or it wasn’t _supposed_ to be, but I wasn’t thinking logically, and… and I’m sorry.

“You’re right—I don’t know you. And you don’t know me. We don’t know anything about one another, but we’re stuck together regardless doing this stupid project that lasts way too long and is a waste of everyone’s time…” You trail off, and after a brief second of hesitation, you give another small bow again, though you don’t hold it for very long. “I’ve made an awful first impression, and I’m sorry. For everything—the preconceived notions, the outburst, the taking so long to apologize… Sorry.”

Oikawa is quiet for a long minute, evaluating you and your words. The hardened walls have been lowered; instead of the cold, curt, standoffish character that’s been constantly presented, here stands a girl who is hesitant and vulnerable, but sincere. There’s a quiet courage about you, he’s surprised to find. You stand tall despite the obvious insecurity; your eyes stay resolute even though he can practically see the anxious thoughts flitting behind (color) irises; you wait patiently for his response despite your hands constantly pulling at that stupid stray thread.

What a change in character from the past month.

And then it clicks. He realizes why he’s so bothered by you even when he doesn’t want to be: it’s because he doesn’t know what to make of you, and that makes him feel _uncertain_. It’s such a foreign feeling to Oikawa. When was the last time he felt unsure about anyone, let alone a girl? Has there _ever_ been a time? He can’t recall.

It’s not that you’re special—you’re really not. He’s met plenty of girls like you before. You’re the typical wallflower, a perfect example of the studious archetype. People like you avoid the limelight and keep to themselves, preferring the company of books over humans. They spend the vast majority of their time studying so that they can go somewhere prestigious like Tokyo University, basing all of their self-worth on how well they can spit out textbook information that may not actually equate to much in real life.

Boring, plain, mundane. You’re all of these things.

But there’s so much more.

Everyone has dimensions to them; that’s part of being human. There are some people who only have a few parts to their simple nature—Chibi-chan and Tobio, for instance, but maybe that’s just because they’re dumb simpletons—and there are a few, like Oikawa himself, whose intricate personalities cannot be quantified by face value.

You, he has learned, are the latter. He’s only caught a glimpse of what’s under the surface, but that glance let him know that there are layers of complexity deep within, layers that you keep hidden away from view. As someone who likes to unravel people, this intrigues Oikawa. He likes to figure out how people work, what makes them tick—and he prides himself at how well he’s gotten at it over the past few years. But people like you—people like _him_ —are hard to read. Never revealing more than necessary, always putting up a front, saying one thing but meaning another… It’s this feeling of the unknown that makes him so uncertain.

You’re disinterested, impassive, guarded.

But you’re also sincere, hurt, vulnerable.

Maybe his initial impression of you was incorrect… just as yours was of him.

Regarding your apology, Oikawa knows that he could be petty. He could be rude, could be nasty, could be unforgiving. But the threats are empty, because he finds that he doesn’t really want to be like that anymore. Sure, when you originally pissed him off, all he wanted to do was make you feel as bad as you had made him. He wanted you to feel upset, bothered, irritated. But now that he’s had time to cool off, he realizes you probably felt all of those—and much more, based on what happened right before you ran off.

You have extended an olive branch. Oikawa could refuse it; it’s in his right after all the things you said to him.

But he’s tired of being spiteful.

Finally, he speaks. “‘Things are not always as they seem; the first appearance deceives many.’”

There's a pregnant pause, before:

“‘The intelligence of a few perceives what has been carefully hidden,’” you complete. Your head snaps up, looking up at him in surprise. Your eyes flicker rapidly across his face, attempting to gage his reaction. You won’t find anything, though; Oikawa has deliberately kept his expression impartial. He sees you swallow thickly. “Phaedrus said that. I didn’t know you knew your Roman fabulists.”

“I _do_ know a few things outside of volleyball,” Oikawa says dryly, eyes levelling with you coolly. “There’s quite a lot you don’t know about me.”

You balk, looking down. “Sor—”

“It’s fine,” he says flatly, cutting you off with a wave of his hand. He got it the first time—he doesn’t need to hear _sorry_ over and over again. “You’re not the first to do it, and you won’t be the last.”

And it’s true. He’s been called so many things: a flake (other volleyball players), a playboy (an envious classmate), a dumbass (Iwa-chan), Trashykawa (also Iwa-chan), Shittykawa (still Iwa-chan…), and now a conceited, manipulative, self-centered user—

He pushes aside the impending thought, instead deflecting with a joke. “I will say, the self-centered comment did sting a little though~” As did the rest, but he doesn’t want to think about it.

Oikawa can immediately tell by your reaction that it’s still too soon to joke around. Your mouth pulls back into a grimace and your shoulder sag just the slightest. The brunette refrains from sighing, but he gets it. It’s kind of like building a house on uneven terrain—you have to take the time to figure out where to properly set the foundation before even trying to continue. Right now you’re still looking at your floorplans, trying to figure out how to fix what you’ve already incorrectly laid down.

The original mistake can’t ever be replaced, but that doesn’t mean that it can’t be covered. And the more the house is built up, the more the error will be forgotten about. People will move on, focused on more important things rather than a silly blunder that happened so long ago.

That’s what he wants to do: go forward, and concentrate on things that actually matter.

You have extended an olive branch. He reaches out to accept it.

Oikawa steps to the side, opening a space for you on the sidewalk. You blink at him, a little confused; in return, he gives you a small smile that’s not quite sincere, but not entirely fake either. With a sweep of his arm, the captain gestures to the path ahead, looking at you expectantly. It’s an invitation to walk together, as equals. A small olive branch of his own.

You understand. He watches as your eyes widen just the slightest in surprise before your expression melts into something that can only be considered relieved. Your entire face softens; it makes you look like the high schooler you are, rather than the mature, adult-like character you tend to portray. Oikawa can’t help but think that this suits you much more.

So you walk forward and Oikawa falls into step, the two of you resuming your trek together. The air is still tinged with hesitant unease, but it’s no longer oppressive or tense. You seem to stand a little bit taller, footsteps a little bit lighter than before. Oikawa even swears that he sees a ghost of a smile on your lips.

What a change.

The setter replays your words in his head. _Bad experience_. Obviously you’re talking about that Tatsuya guy. Who was he to you? What could have happened to possibly make you react the way you did? How long ago was it?

Oikawa tells himself that he still doesn’t really _care_ , but he can’t help but be a tiny bit curious. Even though he knows he’s not going to get a straight answer out of you, he still decides to ask. “Bad experience, huh?”

You don’t answer right away, and Oikawa looks down at you. Your eyes have a slightly glazed look about them; although you’re physically present your thoughts are elsewhere, probably recounting past events that are still sore to think about. After another moment you shake your head lightly, sighing softly. “Yeah. It was a long time ago.” The words are weary.

Oikawa tucks his hands into his pockets, shrugging even though you’re not looking. “Sometimes it’s hard to let go,” he states.

He doesn’t miss your grimace. “Yeah…”

The rest of the trip is in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter that turned out much different (and much longer) than what was originally written! 
> 
> I think everything is pretty straightforward for the most part, even though I feel like it's super introspective. Can I just say that I love writing Momo? She is the bestest friend. 
> 
> Oikawa is a little bit more serious this chapter as well. He won't be like that all the time, but I wanted to explore how he'd possibly respond to conflict & resolution with a girl - sure, we see conflict between him and all the volleyball bois all the time, but I feel like we don't see him interacting with girls (other than the fangirls). I like to think that he wouldn't be super snarky and nasty lol idk maybe that's just me.
> 
> We also get to see a bit more of Reader/Tatsuya relationship! Don't worry, this isn't the last of it ;)
> 
> It's been super cold where I live and everyone is sick, including me lol. Time for a cup of tea and a nap. Thanks for reading! :)


	5. Common Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“What if you were always stuck in one place, your mind spinning and unable to go forward like tires clenched in mud, because the answers wouldn't reveal themselves to you?”_ \- Will Lavender, _Obedience_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the chapter that will probably have the biggest info dump in this whole story lol. It’s all necessary though, as we are introduced to Reader’s second (third? Fourth? Lol) major conflict. Someone give Reader-chan a hug. OIKAWA WHERE ARE YOU. 
> 
> Also there are a few small language references that make sense if you know them and might not if you don’t, so please see endnotes for those if you're confused :) Happy reading! 
> 
> (Side note, I've been catching up on the manga.... can i just say how much i love goshiki and semi??? idk man there's just something about them.)

The latter half of May is considerably less rocky than the beginning of the month, much to your relief. Although the first few days post-apology are still noticeably awkward—understandable, as it takes time to find one’s footing after restarting an already shaky relationship—things between you and Oikawa gradually calm down enough to where you’re able to coexist without too much trouble. You’d never in a million years call what you have going on a _Friendship_ ; but maybe if you tilt your head to the side, squint, and stretch the truth juuuuuust a little bit, you’d potentially be able to admit that your relationship with him is now something akin to Business Acquaintanceship. _Maybe._

(At the very least, at least it’s better than the previous “I-Don’t-Like-You-But-That’s-Because-I-Judged-A-Book-By-Its-Cover-Whoops-Sorry”-Ship.)

As Momo had predicted, Oikawa is quite intelligent. Now that the two of you are meeting in private (meaning there are no fangirls around to bother you and to distract him), you find that you, somehow, work incredibly well together. He occasionally points out flaws in your budget plans—ones that you hadn’t even thought of or seen prior to him bringing them to your attention—and oftentimes offers helpful suggestions, both of which are appreciated by you. The fact that he seems to take his studies seriously is a little surprising…but then again, you don’t really have much room to speak on his character, as your previous snap judgement ended up causing what you now dub “May’s Disastrous Dumpster Fire.”

What Momo _didn’t_ predict, however—and what you didn’t expect—is the snarky, smug, childish Oikawa. It’s incredible, really—one moment he can say something incredibly astute, and the next he’ll complain that his recent selfie on Instagram didn’t get as many likes as he had wanted. He can be contemplative, staring at his economics notes with unwavering focus, and then suddenly he’ll start acting all smug as he somehow weaves an unprovoked insult (aimed at people you’ve never even heard of—Chibi-chan? Tobio? Who are these people?) into a conversation that has nothing to do with aforementioned strangers.

As interesting as you find the dichotomy of these two sides of his personality (as well as the fact that he can effortlessly switch between the two like it’s nothing), it throws you off. Although you’re able to handle Oikawa’s presence just fine now, you’re never quite sure _how_ to react whenever he shifts between serious and snark, from calm and collected to childish and callous. There is much more to your partner than meets the eye, and you’re almost certain that the two personalities he generally shows you are only just a few of his many faces. And that makes you feel uncertain. You find yourself holding back, always giving neutral and polite answers to the oddball comments, never fully speaking what’s on your mind.

You’re talking about it with your sister Umeko one night after dinner. You are in the living room, empty bowls of ramen on the coffee table and some American drama playing in the background. You sit on the sectional sofa, idly petting your cat Hachi while he sleeps beside you; Umeko lounges on the floor, sipping a can of beer while also keeping an eye on Nana, your other cat, who keeps trying to lick the leftover ramen broth from the dishes.

“One minute we can literally be budgeting for our weekly groceries, and then next thing I know, he’s asking me which picture makes him look the best so he can post it,” you tell her, eyebrows furrowed in slight confusion. “I don’t get it.”

Your sister shrugs noncommittedly. “So he’s a little narcissistic—big deal. Social media does that to society. At least he’s handsome though, right? I hate when people think they’re hot shit when they’re really not—especially when they add all those filters…”

 _All of your photos have filters_ , you think dryly, but decide it’s best not to comment. You instead shake your head and say, “That’s not the point.”

“Then you bring him up because…”

“Because… I dunno.”

Now that you honestly think about it, why _did_ you bring him up in the first place? To gain insight? If that’s the case, maybe Momo would have been a better pick for a conversation partner—at least she has somewhat interacted with Oikawa and has a general idea of his temperament. But then again, you assume that the volleyball captain doesn’t frequently show off the more unflattering parts of his personality to the general public. If he did, you _highly_ doubt he’d be as popular as he is. So maybe Momo wouldn’t have been any help, either.

So you shrug, concluding, “He just confuses me, and I never know what to say.”

Umeko looks up at you and suddenly smirks. Her eyes, the same rich (color) as your own, shine with mischief. “Eh, what’s this? Baby Sister is talking about a boy, _and_ she admits she’s nervous around him~? Could this be… _a_ _crush_?”

“Absolutely not,” you deadpan immediately, frowning. The idea is almost laughable. Also what’s up with everyone thinking you’re nervous around him? First Momo, now Umeko—who’s next? Morita-sensei?

“You sure?” queries Umeko, face still stuck in that annoying grin of hers.

“I’m over 9000% sure. Plus he’s seeing someone,” you argue.

Umeko takes a sip of her beer before saying airily, “Just because there’s a goalie doesn’t mean you can’t score, ya know~” Your sister laughs loudly, startling Hachi out of his sleep.

You feel your face grow hot at the absurd suggestion. You grab an accent pillow and chuck it at her with probably more force than necessary; Umeko quickly pulls her drink away from the line of fire as she’s hit in the shoulder with your not-so-great aim. (You were going for the face, but you’ll take what you can get.) She scowls at you. “Hey, don’t make me spill my beer! This is precious stuff, you know.”

“Mom says that you drink the cheap stuff and that you have bad taste.”

“Like she would know…” mutters Umeko, rolling her eyes. She tosses the pillow back at you, and you catch it before it goes flying over the coach—looks like you both inherited more than just the same looks from your mother, who also has notoriously bad aim. Your sister goes back to the subject at hand. “So if you don’t like the kid and you’re not trying to impress anyone, why are you holding back?” she asks you. “Why just not be yourself? Your sarcastic, boring, _way_ -too-serious—”

“ _Oneesan_ , be nice—”

“—beautiful, hard-working, cat-loving self?” she finishes, gently pushing Nana off the table as the cat continues her incessant quest for ramen leftovers. “You have to work with him for a long time; you don’t have to develop an _everlasting relationship_ or whatever Old Man Morita says every year, but I guarantee it’ll make your life easier in the long run if you just be you.”

As Umeko stands and collects both bowls, heading to the kitchen to clean up, you ruminate about her words. Your sister isn’t always the smartest, but she does have the occasional wise, elder sibling moment. She’s never been one to shy away from challenging you when she thinks you’re being unreasonable—something that you’ve always appreciated about her, even if the gratitude comes in hindsight. Obviously she thinks you’re being a little silly right now, and even you have to agree. You don’t really understand why Oikawa in particular throws you off. You’ve met a handful of unique, complex people in your life—arguably none as multifaceted as him, but you’ve never _not_ felt comfortable around them. Is it perhaps due to May’s Disastrous Dumpster Fire? That would make a bit more sense, but then again, you’ve both gotten past that horrendous “you’re-forgiven-but-it’s-still-incredibly-awkward” phase. Or at least _he_ seems to have moved past it. Now you’re not entirely sure if you have.

You don’t have more time to ponder and (inevitably) overthink. When Umeko comes back a few short seconds later, she tells you, “Speaking of you being hard-working… your lovely, ray-of-sunshine dance coach called me earlier today.” Though her words are pleasant, the tone makes it very obvious that she’s being incredibly facetious.

You blink in surprise, immediately interested but also a little troubled. “Coach Takai called _you_?”

“Trust me, I was just as surprised,” Umeko says flatly, sighing. She slides back down to the floor. “I should have saved his number in my phone way back when… that way I could have known who was calling, and ignored it.”

You ignore her incredibly petty statement. “Didn’t you say he hates you?” 

“Probably. Maybe? Actually, yes. Whatever—he for sure doesn’t _like_ me,” Umeko supplies, snorting. “Like I care, though. He’s just salty and jealous that he hasn’t won a single competition against me since high school. As I told you before, it’s not my fault he sucks and I’m a dance goddess.” She flips her hair, obviously smug.

Although you don’t know all the details due to the seven-year age gap between you and your sister, you do know that her and Takai Shigeru have always had some sort of a weird, petty rivalry. Umeko loves to claim that it’s one-sided (“ _Me_? Bothered by _him_? He wishes.”), but based on her reaction when she found out he had returned to Miyagi and was hired as your new coach—

(“You’ve got to be kidding me— _Takai_? Excuse me while I go swim into the ocean and never come back—”)

—as well as whenever the fateful Spring Prefectural Incident is brought up—

(“Oh, sweetheart, is Shigeru-kun your former classmate who beat you by just half a point in your last major high school competition, and who went to those nationals instead of you because of it?”

“Geez _MOM_ , way to be sensitive! Also we don’t speak about those dark times. It was a bogus call; his routines _were_ and still _are_ shit compared to mine—”

“Ume, don’t curse in front of your mother and sister.”

“But it’s true! There’s a reason I’ve won the Intercollegiate Nationals for the past three years and _he_ hasn’t—”

“ _Oneesan_ , maybe you’ve won them because you’re just… good…?”

“Well yes, (Name), but do you know why Ass-kai doesn’t—”

“ _Umeko_. Go wash your mouth with soap.”)

—you have a feeling that she cares _just_ a bit more than she lets on.

Umeko still continues to grumble. “He should have just stayed in Tokyo after he graduated. He was enough of a pain in the ass in a different region. Now with him back up here, it’s going to be high school all over again… Ugh.” She sighs, leaning her head back against the couch and looking miserable as she sips her beer.

“You’re so melodramatic,” you mutter, but your lips quirk upward in amusement.

“It’s part of my charm,” Umeko retorts sarcastically. She tilts her head to look at you curiously. “So he called…”

“So he did.” You have a feeling you know where this is going.

“He threatened to kick you out of Club?” she asks. Her eyes are surprisingly serious, and you sigh softly. Looks like your hunch was correct.

A few days ago, much to your chagrin, Takai had called on you and your partner, Haruto, to perform your routine in front of everyone. Seijoh’s Dance Club is a bit unique—unlike most schools, where every member of the club works together as a single group, your club focuses on partner dance. Working in pairs allows the chance to build your own routine (with, of course, guidance from a coach), providing more opportunity for creative, individual expression—that is, _if_ you put in the effort. Unfortunately you and Haruto hadn’t really done much to add pizzazz and flair to your routine, and it showed. To say Coach was unimpressed is an understatement.

At the end of practice Takai came up to the two of you, arms crossed and face stern. You’d seen this expression multiple times before already, and knew what was about to come your way. He started with Haruto, though you really doubted it meant much to your partner (Haruto joined Dance merely because it was mandatory for all first- and second-year Seijoh students to participate in some extracurricular activity, plus he had heard it was one of the more relaxed clubs). “Sakano, you look like a limp fish,” Takai told him. “Keep your elbows up—you have _some_ muscle, so use it—and for the love of God, stop shuffling so much. It’s like you don’t know how to use feet.”

And while Haruto gave a very blasé “Yes, Coach” and (probably deliberately) shuffled away, Takai turned his gaze onto you, dark eyes narrowed in annoyance. He was silent for a moment, as if contemplating your existence. Finally he opened his mouth, saying, “When I first learnt that another (Surname) danced and that _I_ was to be the one coaching it”—at this your eye twitches; really, _it_?—“I was originally _very_ annoyed. Your sister is absolutely insufferable; she makes my life miserable. Do you know why I like to call her Umeboshi? It’s because pickled plums are one of my least favorite foods, and she’s one of my least favorite people.”

(It was an incredibly dramatic statement, but you stayed silent; it was best to just keep quiet as he talked.)

“But as I thought about it more,” Takai continued, waving his hand about, “I said to myself, ‘Shigeru, you’re being irrational. The chances of the same two people spawning yet _another_ demon child is slim to none.’ I thought that there was no way _you’d_ be able to annoy me more than Umeboshi.” Suddenly Takai laughs caustically, causing a stone to drop in the pit of your stomach. “But I was very wrong—you’re _worse_ than she is. And you know why? Ask me why,” he challenged.

Your mouth felt dry as you murmured, “Why, Coach?”

“Because you lack confidence, you lack drive, you lack _passion_. There’s nothing I dislike more than someone who has natural, raw talent, but who decides to waste it for absolutely no good reason.” Takai turned to leave, but not before adding, “Fix it. Otherwise I won’t hesitate to kick you out.”

Which leaves you in your current state—tired, concerned, and a little exasperated at the threat. Although university-bound third years are not required to stay in their respective clubs, there is a stark difference between voluntarily quitting and being kicked out. The latter reflects poorly on your character, which some universities—especially those that require recommendation letters—take into consideration when screening prospective students.

Your silence is all Umeko needs for confirmation. She sighs softly, swishing her leftover beer around in the metal can. “Thought so,” she murmurs.

“I don’t know what his deal is,” you suddenly blurt, frustrated.

“Does anyone?” asks Umeko, snorting.

“But really—like I get that he wants to get Seijoh back to competing again, but there are plenty of other members who are good enough to do that. Why am I the one being called out all the time?”

The Aoba Johsai Dance Club used to be considered a regional powerhouse for years back when Coach Teramura—a grumpy, old, Miyagi-based dance legend who was Umeko and Takai’s old mentor—was in charge. Aspiring dancers would flock to Seijoh just for the opportunity to work with him, and all of his students consistently ranked high in every competition they performed at. In addition, not only did they all do well in pairs (with the exception of that one time Umeko and Takai were forced to work together—but Umeko refuses to acknowledge it ever happened), but the members also frequently performed as soloists, which is where Umeko really shined. Unfortunately Coach Teramura decided to retire when Umeko’s class graduated, and that acted as the catalyst for Dance Club to morph from powerhouse to casual dance group. It only took two short years after his retirement for your club to completely fall from grace. Morning practices stopped altogether; the daily rigorous afternoon practices suddenly dwindled to just three times a week; the curriculum went from solo and partner dance to just the latter; and the competitions, which used to be such a source of pride and excitement for all members, just stopped.

It certainly doesn’t help that the club hasn’t been able to hold a coach for more than two years at a time. You once joked with Umeko that you thought the position was cursed; when Takai got hired, she proclaimed, “If it wasn’t cursed beforehand, it sure is now.”

You know that Takai is wanting to restore Seijoh’s Dance Club back to its former glory—in fact, that was one of the first things he told everyone at the startup meeting. It’s only mid-May and he’s already making plans for the October’s Fall Prefectural. You can tell during practice he’s watching everything intently, evaluating everyone’s overall skill and drive. You have a feeling that he probably has a ranking system in his head to determine who’s even worth spending time conditioning for competitions.

You’re sure that you’re absolutely nowhere near the top of that list—in fact, if you had to guess, you are probably near the bottom. There are so many members who are way more talented than you, so many more who have that fire to compete. Takai has _plenty_ of candidates to choose from.

Yet despite all of the amazing talent that’s waiting and ready to bloom, he chooses to pick on you the most. At the beginning it was no secret that he was going to be biased towards you due to Umeko; because of it, you knew that he was going to be more critical. At first you endured it the best you could, expecting that he’d move on and let you fade into the background as you had been doing the past two years. You hoped that eventually he’d realize that you wouldn’t—couldn’t—change.

But it’s been three weeks, and he hasn’t let up. In fact, it keeps getting worse. _You’re_ the one he singles out, _you’re_ the one he chooses to use harsher words with, _you’re_ the one he threatens to kick out.

You’re frustrated.

At Takai, yes—but also at yourself.

You want to rise up to Takai’s high expectations; you want to feel that drive to compete. You want _nothing_ more than to love dance again.

But you just _can’t_.

When you look up, Umeko is looking at you again. Her eyes are shadowed, and there’s a small crease between her eyebrows.

You know she knows. Of course she does.

Your sister reaches over to pat you on the leg reassuringly. “Don’t worry—he’s not going to kick you out.” She grins mischievously. “I told him I’d punch him in his tiny dick if he did.”

Umeko has always been a master at breaking tension. You find yourself smirking despite your solemn thoughts. “That’s so crude.”

“But effective,” she tells you, winking.

You roll your eyes but your smirk widens. After a moment you say, “Whatever you say… Umeboshi-oneesan.”

“Fuck—he told you about that?” groans Umeko, scowling. “Ugh, he’s the worst. Ass-kai Shit-geru—I think you should start calling him that.”

“Absolutely not,” you deadpan for the second time this night. “That would guarantee me being thrown out, no matter how many times you threaten violence.”

“There are worse things,” Umeko says, shrugging. She pauses for a moment, face contemplative. You feel her mood shift back to serious as she thinks; quietly and hesitantly, she asks, “Have you thought about quitting Club, then?”

It’s not uncommon to see university-bound third years drop their extracurriculars sometime during the year so that they can focus on studying. Fumiko, for instance, quit Calligraphy Club within the first week—but that surprised absolutely no one, considering her academic ranking. (Later, when you talked with her about it, she told you with a grin, “Everyone thinks I quit because I need to study—and yeah, that’s true, but actually I just _really_ hate calligraphy. It’s so much work for an art form I just don’t understand.”) At the same time, there are still a handful of those who decide to stick with their club throughout the year, provided they get permission from their advisor. You know Momo has no plans on quitting Photography Club for a handful of reasons, the biggest of which being that there’s no point in her withdrawing when she intends on making photography her career.

In Dance Club, you expect that the majority of third years will quit in late October following the Fall Prefectural. Everyone knows that it’s unrealistic to expect anyone to go to Nationals this year (each Prefectural competition is divided into three subcategories—Solo, Pairs, and Group—and the top-ranked person or persons from each subgroup moves onto the seasonal national competition), so competing in the Prefectural will serve as a first—and last—hurrah of Dance Club for those chosen to compete. But for those of you who almost certainly won’t get that opportunity…

You stop your train of thought before it can start to spiral. “Years of hard work, thrown away that easily?” you query.

Umeko blinks in surprise before shrugging. “I dunno—it happens to people all the time, right? They try to make something work, giving it their all for years and years and years… and then one day they just wake up and decide that it’s not worth it. Either they lack the drive, or they’re just really not cut out to do it.” She sips at her beer, adding cautiously, “I don’t think there’s any shame in admitting it and moving on to different things.”

_Easy for you to say_ , you think bitterly. Umeko has both the natural talent _and_ the drive to be a successful dancer, which she has done. Following high school she chose to put university on hold (much to the chagrin of your parents), instead taking three years to tour around Asia with the Chrysanthemum Suns, a young Japanese dance crew that quickly rose to prominence. Although the group disbanded after the tour—Umeko briefly mentioned something about funding—each member is still active and frequently talked about. Your sister, in particular, has been on lots of people’s radar, especially after winning first place in Solo Dance three times in a row at the annual Intercollegiate National Dance Championship. She’s been dubbed as one of Japan’s rising dance stars, featured in a few dance magazines, competed in several national competitions, and even a few internationally. All this, and she’s only twenty-four.

“I can’t just drop it so easily,” you tell her, borderline a little offended that she acts like it’s an easy thing to do. “How would _you_ like it if I asked you if you should quit?”

“That’s different. For me it’s—”

Umeko immediately cuts herself off, but you already know what she was going to say: _For me it’s a career; for you, it’s just a hobby_.

And that’s completely true; you can’t deny that. It was very clear from the start that, although you had talent and promise, you were absolutely nowhere near the level of Umeko’s genius. You struggled with this fact for years—Umeko cast a very long shadow, and for the longest time you thought it was necessary to claw your way out from underneath it, to prove that you were just as good (if not _better_ ) than she was. But once you realized that that wasn’t going to happen, you decided to just create your own small light within the darkness, finding meaning and significance in just _enjoying_ the sport.

So yes, it is “just a hobby.” But that doesn’t mean that it’s not important to you. Dance still means the world to you.

Or used to, at least.

The thought makes your heart thud dully.

Umeko backtracks, knowing that she’s messed up. “Okay, so no quitting—at least not for now,” she concedes, and you give a small shrug. “I know you’re stubborn, but I must admit I’m actually kind of surprised; after all, the Golden Child needs to study hard to get a full scholarship to Tokyo University! Then maybe once they have a child who fits their idea of a Japanese success story, Mom and Dad will _finally_ get off my case about taking so long to graduate!”

The pit in your stomach grows deeper, and you refrain from wincing. You love Umeko to pieces, but you don’t think she’s aware of how much weight her words hold. But you decide to ignore it for now, instead saying, “True, you’re a slacker. Most people your age either have jobs or are in graduate school—you have how many years left of undergrad?”

“Just one… or two… maybe,” Umeko admits sheepishly. Her glamorous Dance Life is not all sunshine and rainbows; taking three years off, compounded with having to retake quite a few courses due to subpar grades, has made it so that Umeko is behind a few years academically. You doubt she cares _too_ too much, though—she’s mostly getting a business degree to make your parents happy.

(Just like going to Tokyo University will—)

“Dance takes up a lot of time, okay?” objects Umeko, pulling you from your thoughts.

“Coach Takai managed to do it,” you say dryly, smirking when Umeko huffs.

“Listen—Ass-kai went to an art school, okay? They take into account the rigorous dance schedule—”

“Sure…”

“Why aren’t you on your big sister’s side, (Name)~?”

You roll your eyes good-naturedly, grinning. The two of you lull into silence, both directing your attention to the American drama. This seems to be a new one, as you don’t recognize any of the characters. Umeko is streaming it from her laptop—she doesn’t want to wait a few months for it to air on Japanese television (if it even does)—so the quality is quite poor and, unsurprisingly, there are no subtitles. You find your attention drifting, mind going over your and Umeko’s conversation.

Not being yourself with Oikawa. Takai being sour towards you, and your inability to rise up to the plate. Quitting dance.

It’s a lot to take in.

Umeko also seems to still be in thought as well, for after a few minutes she murmurs, “ _Never_ tell him I said this, but… Takai is an ass… but he’s an ass who cares. About dance, and about his students.” She looks at you sidelong. “I don’t agree at all with how he shows it, but I think he pushes you because he knows you can do it. And I do, too. But at the end of the day, quitting, staying on—that’s your choice. Just do what you think is best for you.”

_What’s best for me_.

You’ve never been good at figuring that out.

You smile despite the heavy feeling in your chest and pull your legs out from underneath you, standing up. As lovely as chatting with your sister normally is, you’ve had enough of this very heavy conversation. You pat her on the shoulder as you pass by. “Thanks, Umeboshi-oneesan.”

Umeko sighs heavily and shakes her head, smirking regardless. “Don’t make that a habit, (Name).”

“No promises,” you say, smirking. As you begin to head up the stairs to your room you say, “I need to go study. Can you make me a pot of tea, please?”

“Sure thing. Caffeine or no?”

“Is that really a question?”

“Caffeine it is~”

* * *

You’re not at all surprised that the conversation with Umeko circles in your head all the next day, nor are you shocked when you become more and more distracted as the day goes on. By the time dance rolls around, you’ve completely left Earth and are instead on Planet (Name).

This, of course, creates a lot of issues. You begin to make rookie mistakes during practice—leading with the wrong foot first, jumping a beat too early, stepping on poor Haruto’s toes. Forty-five minutes into your two-hour practice, every member of the club is completely on-edge. You can feel the eyes flitting nervously between you and Coach Takai, waiting for the eventual blowup. You’re expecting it too, and the anticipation makes you fumble even more. You know your face is a tomato red, and it’s not just from exertion.

Takai is _not_ happy. He stands in front of the wall of mirrors, looking absolutely menacing—arms crossed, head tilted down, legs apart, eyes narrowed into slits. The anger rolling off of him makes it thirty times worse. Eventually other members are so tense that _they_ start making mistakes, too—even Tatsuya, who is arguably the best dancer in the whole club, almost drops his partner as he lifts her in the air.

But Takai never says anything. He stays quiet the whole practice, only speaking to call for a break. At the end of practice, he doesn’t even do his standard dismissal announcements; he merely walks out, grumbling about how he needs a cigarette.

You’re still feeling absolutely mortified as you make your way to the gym mezzanine, footsteps heavy and shuffling. You know that no one is looking at you anymore but you keep a low profile anyway, shoulders hunched forward as you ascend the mezzanine stairs, pass by a few fangirls, and make your way to your standard corner. Your hands are yet again fidgeting with the hem of your black jacket—it’s a habit you really want to squash before you destroy the trimming of your clothes, but you just can’t seem to help yourself recently.

Once you’ve made it to your destination you lean against the wall, letting yourself slowly slide down to the floor. It’s a dramatic gesture, but you don’t care. You hear your phone ding in your bag and when you fish it out, you see you have a new message from Umeko.

**(Surname) Umeko:** asskai strikes again… to block or not to block his number, that is the question

You don’t answer, tossing your phone onto your bag. You know she’ll have lots of questions when you get home later. Her words about Coach Takai ring in your head—“ _He pushes you because he knows you can do it”_ —but after today, you feel like that’s the farthest thing from the truth. The fact that he didn’t say a single thing about your blunders speaks way more than words could.

As much as you want to wallow and feel bad for yourself, you know that fixating on what happened is not going to help anything. Since you have about thirty minutes before Oikawa’s practice wraps up, you decide to study the English idioms you learnt in class today. You go through your bag again and pull out your notebook, flipping to your newest page of notes:

_ English Idioms  _

_NEGATIVE_

  * _“Go on a wild goose chase” - to do something pointless_
  * _“Get your act together” - work better, or leave_
  * _“Go back to the drawing board” - start over_
  * _“Go down in flames” - fail spectacularly_
  * _“Don’t give up your day job” - you’re not very good at this_



“Oh come _on_ ,” you say, annoyed. You toss your notebook down on your bag as well, glaring at the page. Your little doodles, poor attempts at cats and dogs, stare back, their dumb faces wonky and mocking. You pull your legs up and wrap your arms around them, resting your temple on your kneecap as you turn your head to look the other way. Umeko’s voice rings out once again in your mind, this time with a different message.

_“Have you thought about quitting?”_

Of course you had. Multiple times, in fact. Even before third year started, you were already debating it.

When you and Tatsuya broke up, your drive for dance just… disappeared. It was like someone took a large bucket of water and dumped it on a flame, leaving nothing but smoke and char. He had been there since the genesis of your dance journey; when you separated, you didn’t just lose your boyfriend—you lost your best friend, your partner, your other half. And slowly but surely, dance—the thing that had given you _so_ much joy for the past nine years—started to feel heavy, foreign, almost burdensome. Nothing felt _right_.

At first you thought that it was just the shock of suddenly losing Tatsuya; you naively thought that in a few months, with a different partner, things would get better. You told yourself that you just needed time to heal and move on, and then things would improve. But things never got better. You have plateaued, completely stuck in limbo. The feeling of loss when you first realized you didn’t have a passion for dance anymore was agonizing; the continued feeling of floating aimlessly is absolutely torturous.

Quitting is the sensible thing to do, really—you need to really focus on your studies if you want to do well in entrance exams; you’ve just been stagnating with dance since first year; and Club is guaranteed to get way more intense and time-consuming now that Takai is in charge. Nothing logically points to you staying your final year. You _know_ it’s the right move to quit… yet you find yourself hesitant. Years of blood, sweat, and tears, flushed down the drain as easily as that? It just feels… wrong.

You want to love dance again. You want to feel that fire, that joy, that drive. You know it’s still there, somewhere deep down. You just can’t find it. It almost feels like you’re anchored at the bottom of a pool; when you look up, you can see the light at the surface, calling you. But you still find yourself stuck, and no matter what you do, you can’t free yourself from the weight wrapped around your ankle.

_“Have you thought about quitting?”_

Your arms tighten around your legs. “Of course I have,” you mutter to yourself. “But… I don’t want to.”

But desire and logic—the heart and the brain—can frequently counteract one another. _This_ you’re painfully aware of, considering May’s Disastrous Dumpster Fire happened. So maybe you should listen to logic… Maybe quitting _is_ the best thing to do, even if it doesn’t feel completely right.

“Cover, cover!”

“Chance ball!”

“One more!”

“One touch!”

The sounds from the gymnasium below suddenly fill your ears, and you lift your head, curious. Sounds like a scrimmage. You look at your English notes again, debating with yourself for a split second before realizing you’re being silly—there’s no way you’re going to get anything productive done right now—and decide you have nothing better to do than watch. You uncurl and pull yourself up, carefully making your way to the railing of the mezzanine and watching for stray balls. (You learnt your lesson last time.)

It is indeed a practice game. You recognize some of the faces and are pleasantly surprised that you can place a few names as well. On the left side you recognize Oikawa, Iwaizumi, the Onion Head guy (what was his name? He introduced himself… was it Kikuchi?), and Watari (whose name you only know because you know another Watari). The right side is much less familiar to you, but you still notice Matsukawa, Hanamaki, the first year with the dead eyes and weird middle part, and the cute brunette you have nicknamed Oikawa Lite, primarily because he seems to have the same job as Oikawa.

As you watch the game, you find that your gaze naturally drifts to Oikawa. He has this confident aura about him that practically demands attention. Even from this distance you can see the absolute determination and seriousness in his eyes, the way that he quickly runs through every possible scenario in his head. He passes the ball effortlessly to Iwaizumi, who in turn slams the ball down in-between Matsukawa’s and Dead Eyes’ arms. As a whistle is blown and the players break for water, you see Oikawa and Iwaizumi exchange a high-five. Oikawa’s grin is wide, his expression jubilant; he then says something to Iwaizumi and although _his_ expression remains pleasant, the spiky-haired player suddenly scowls and punches the captain in the side hard enough that Oikawa flails off balance with a “Ouch, stop being so violent~!”

There’s that weird dichotomy again—the smooth transition from serious to snarky in just a second’s time. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“Don’t mind them—this is standard behavior!” a voice calls to you from below. You jump, surprised, and find the source. It’s Hanamaki, grinning up at you.

You feel your face flush as some of the players look at you curiously. Oikawa, hearing Hanamaki, also looks briefly at you before shouting at Iwaizumi, “Iwa-chan, don’t make me look bad in front of my partner!”

(In response a water bottle is thrown at his head, along with an annoyed “You make yourself look bad!”)

You give a small, nervous smile before retreating back to the wall, wanting to avoid the stares—you’ve already gone over your daily quota of what you can handle. Everyone quickly goes back to minding their own business, and after a few minutes the team resumes their game to wrap up practice. From your vantage point you’re still able to see some of the game while being mostly out of sight, and yet again you find yourself watching Oikawa.

Even with your lack of volleyball knowledge you can tell the captain is good, but what you’re most interested in is his character. There is a sense of pride and confidence about Oikawa whenever one of his teammates scores. As he plays, it’s easy to see how passionate and serious he is for volleyball. It’s almost as if… as if it’s more than just a sport for him.

A chill shoots down your spine. You know that feeling. It’s how you used to be back when you loved dance.

Key words being _how you used to be._

Your stomach suddenly feels hollow.

_“Have you thought about quitting?”_

* * *

The trip to your house is a bit more silent than normal, and at first Oikawa wonders if he’s somehow pissed you off again. But the air is not stifling or oppressive, and although you seem a little aloof, you’re as pleasant as can be expected. You seem to actively listen as the captain talks, even supplying a minuscule smile when he complains that his side hurts from where Iwa-chan punched him an hour before. The brunette decides that _no_ , you’re fine—or, at the very least, if you’re bothered, it has nothing to do with him. And that’s all he really cares about, if he’s being forthright.

After a few moments of one-sided chatter, Oikawa decides it’s best to just leave you be and decides to go on his phone to bide time. He sends a message to his girlfriend asking how her day was, and is about to reply to Mattsun in the group chat—the bushy-browed middle blocker sent a picture of a bowl of ramen along with a text reading “oikawa my man, shouldve come to ramen w us instead of being a goody two shoes, youre missing out”—when you suddenly speak up.

“Do you practice every day for volleyball?”

Oikawa is surprised—both at the fact that _you_ initiated a conversation that isn’t about the Budget Project, and that you’re asking him about _volleyball_. “In one form or another,” he answers. When your eyebrows furrow, he clarifies, “We practice five or six times a week, often twice a day, as a team. And on the days we don’t have practice—and even on the days we do—you can do individual training, like extra conditioning, drills, strategizing, watching other teams and their techniques…”

He trails off, watching you. He debates asking why you brought it up in the first place, but ultimately elects against it. Although the past two weeks have been insurmountably better since you’ve apologized, you’re still incredibly aloof. He gets the sense that you don’t really know how to act around him, which is completely fair—it takes time to learn someone else’s tempo, especially if you’re not used to adapting like he is. He decides it’s best not to push; if you want to talk, it’s best to let you do it on your own terms.

Remarkably, you continue with the queries. “What about during vacation? Do you just… stop… and take a break?”

It’s an odd question—but then again, maybe it’s not for someone who doesn’t do athletics. Or maybe you do, he doesn’t know. You have not mentioned anything personal about yourself at all. He only knows two things: 1) you have an elder sister who looks _exactly_ like you, but whose personality is radically different; and 2) you have two cats (oddly named Nana and Hachi—what kind of names are those? Were your previous cats named Five and Six? Will your next one be Kyu?).

Oikawa hums and answers, “Not at all. Because there’s no school, it gets way more intense. You have more time to focus on volleyball, plus there’s time for training camps. It’s an all-day, everyday affair. It’s a lot of work~”

Although the last bit is said with a slightly exasperated tone, the training camps have always been a highlight of Oikawa’s year. He feels a slight pang in his heart as he remembers that this summer will be his last round of training camps—but this one will be the best one yet, as the team will be prepping for the Interhigh Nationals in August. This is going to be their year, Oikawa just _knows_ it.

There’s a small pause, and then you ask, “…Do you ever get tired of it all…?”

This question holds a different weight than the others. Oikawa looks at you; your eyebrows are once again furrowed, and your eyes are distant, as if you’re somewhere else. “I mean, yeah,” he responds, and you look up at him curiously. “Like any sport, volleyball is physically demanding.” _Isn’t that obvious?_ he wonders.

“No, I mean, like…” The crease in your brow deepens as you fish around for the right words. “Has there ever come a point where you just… look at all the work you’ve done, and thought, ‘It’s not worth it’?”

Now it’s Oikawa’s turn to hesitate. He hums, thinking. There have been many times where he’s been emotionally, physically, and spiritually exhausted. He felt it back in middle school, when he worked himself to the bone upon panicking about Little Tobio; and as much as he hates to admit it, he feels it every time he’s bested by that bastard Ushiwaka (though come a few weeks’ time, he will finally have his long-awaited revenge).

But to reach a point where he questions if it’s all worth it? “No, I don’t think so,” the brunette tells you. Not yet, at least. Oikawa knows that everyone goes through that point in their life at least once—that _make it or break it_ moment. He’s sure his time will come soon enough.

“Why?” The word is sharp, borderline frustrated.

“Huh?” Oikawa blinks. “Why what?”

“Why is it all worth it? What drives you to keep going?”

_So curious today,_ Oikawa thinks. He pauses again, debating if he wants to tell you—someone who is essentially still a stranger, maybe acquaintance _at best_ —his truth. But as you look at him, he sees the sheer desperation in your eyes, the subtle hint of panic. He suddenly realizes that you’re not asking for him—you’re asking for yourself. You’re grasping at straws, searching for an answer to something completely unknown to him. 

So Oikawa decides to be genuine with you. This comes as a surprise even to himself; as far as he can recall, this is the first time he’s allowed himself to be so vulnerable with someone he doesn’t know well.

You’re a different kind of girl, that’s for sure.

“What drives me to keep me going, huh? Well, obviously I want to be the best and pummel my enemies~” Oikawa says airily. He looks up at the darkening sky, quickly sobering up. “But there’s more to it than that.”

A pair of eyes flash before him suddenly—a deep sapphire, now looking at him in challenge after years of respect and admiration. _I will become the best setter, I will surpass you_.

It makes him sick.

“There’s always going to be some _prodigy_ ahead of you,” he tells you, scowling. “And no matter what you do, their God-given abilities, talents, gifts, whatever you want to call it—they are always going to make it so that they have an advantage. When you take one step, it’s like they take two. It’s disgusting, really.”

Oikawa feels your eyes snap up to him in alarm, but he ignores you, continuing. “So what do you do? Do you let it break you, or do you use it as momentum to keep pushing, keep working harder?”

You don’t respond. Another set of eyes show up in his mind, this time an olive green. They stare down at him sternly, silently telling him he made the wrong choice, _your pride got in the way_.

_Useless pride._

Oikawa doesn’t think so.

“Maybe it’s fruitless in the end, who knows?” Oikawa shrugs. “But even if it is, it’s you who gets to decide at the end of the day if it was worth it or not. No one else.”

A memory flashes through his mind—it’s Iwa-chan, smashing his head into Oikawa’s nose and yelling at him to stop being so fucking selfish. That pivotal moment, only about a minute-and-a-half long, was what caused Oikawa to wake up, to realize that it wasn’t just about him. He concludes, “Surround yourself with the right people, and keep fighting. Just because you’re up against geniuses and strong adversaries doesn’t mean that you still can’t be the best. After all, talent is something you bloom.”

_Man_ that felt smart, especially that last bit. _I need to save that for later,_ he thinks. He feels smug—as if Tobio or Ushiwaka could be that poignant.

There is a very long, deep silence as you absorb his words. He watches you from the corner of his eye as you try to make sense of it all. He’s aware his monologue is very niche and won’t be useful to most people searching for answers—but you asked him, and he gave you his truth. You will do with it what you will.

Finally, you murmur, “There’s always going to be something that holds you back, but you need to keep pushing… and you’re in control of your destiny… Huh.”

That’s not quite what he said nor meant. Oikawa opens his mouth to tell you such, but he pauses. Your whole ambience has shifted—the brooding, contemplative mood morphs into something a bit lighter, a bit more relaxed. You suddenly stand a little taller, as if a weight has been lifted from your shoulders. And when you look up at him, smiling, that’s when he sees it. _Hope_. It’s barely existent, but there nonetheless.

You interpreted his truth to be something that you needed to hear. And although you twisted Oikawa’s words—something he normally hates people doing—he finds that he’ll let this one slide.

Just when Oikawa thought today was done with all its surprises, you say, “You have the ability to say something so deep like that, and yet you routinely ask me dumb questions like which selfie to post?” You wave in his direction. “Get rid of the other guy. I like this version _way_ more—I can actually tolerate him.”

Oikawa feels his mouth open, dumbfounded. “Did… Did you actually just _joke_?”

He realizes a beat too late that he accidentally said his question out loud.

_Shit_. Well, there goes any sort of progress made in the past two weeks.

But those emotional walls don’t go up. Your eyes, much to his shock, remain engaged (if not a little annoyed). “Am I not allowed to?” you ask, putting a hand on your hip and cocking it to one side.

Now you’re being _cheeky_? Never in a _million_ years did he expect you of all people to be _cheeky_. Has he been abducted by aliens?

Oikawa decides to test the waters. He leans forward, eyes narrowed just the slightest. “Who are you? What have you done with the real (Name)-chan?” His voice is serious, but he’s joking. A test.

And for the first time ever, you don’t shut him down. “Who told you you could address me so informally?” you say flatly. Like his own words, yours sound serious, but there’s a joking light in your eyes. It mixes well with the hope, illuminating your whole face. The test has been passed.

Oikawa smirks. “Well, now that I’m not concerned that you hate me anymore, I thought I’d take my chances. Besides, (Surname)-san sounds so formal—not my style.”

“Who said anything about still not hating you?” you retort, responding with your own smirk.

Oikawa grabs his chest as if offended. “I would have never pegged you as someone so cruel~!”

And then the biggest surprise of the night happens: you laugh. It’s a tinkling and light sound, much like a windchime in the summertime.

Oikawa decides that he most certainly has been abducted. There’s no way that this is the same girl he’s been dealing with since April.

_“_ _‘Things are not always as they seem; the first appearance deceives many. The intelligence of a few perceives what has been carefully hidden.’”_

Ah, yes—Phaedrus.

Aliens are not the cause of this.

Something’s shifted again. Oikawa doesn’t know what caused it or why it happened, but he can’t help but feel another sense of relief. After a few weeks of uneasy planning, it looks like the foundation of the house has finally been laid down properly. Now the rest of it can begin to be built.

The two of you lapse into silence yet again. Oikawa checks his phone. The group chat has a few more messages, despite the fact that the other three are together:

**iwa-chan:** _I’m glad oikawa’s not here. He hogs all of the gyoza._

**makki:** _true. But I kind of get it—that gyoza is damn good_

**mattsun:** _evrything here is good, duh_

Oikawa taps his own response:

**You:** _Iwa-chan, you’re the one who eats all of the gyoza, not me~_

**You:** _no wonder you’re getting fat ☆_

**mattsun:** _LOL BURN_

Oikawa’s phone begins to suddenly buzz rapidly—almost certainly Iwa-chan—so he mutes it and shoves it into his pocket, deciding to deal with it later. He looks at you once more. You still seem in thought, but there’s a lightness to your steps that wasn’t there before. You catch him looking at you; you offer a small but curious smile, head tilting just the slightest.

He speaks freely. “Do you have something like that?” He knows you know what he’s alluding to—do you have something that you love so much that you will work tirelessly toward, even if it doesn’t amount to much?

You falter just the slightest, the tiny smile falling from your lips. “I… I used to,” you murmur, looking down. “Not anymore.”

Like with the “bad experience” incident, Oikawa doesn’t push. He’s sure sooner or later he will understand—another piece to fill in the puzzle. One step at a time. So instead he smirks at you and says airily, “Don’t worry. I’ll teach you volleyball. With my expertise, you’ll be hooked in no time. 2020 Summer Olympics, here we come~”

You snort. “I hate playing athletics.”

His smirk widens. “So not only are you cruel, but you’re lazy? Wow, I’m learning so many things about you today.”

“As I said, bring back the other guy. This one is the worst.”

* * *

“Wooooow, (Name)-chan—this is the first time I’ve seen you in a good mood in like a month. You’re even _humming_ ,” Momo states on your way to school the next day.

You pause the humming you didn’t even know you were doing, looking at your best friend. You give her a genuine smile. “Today’s going to be a good day—I can feel it,” you say. “I slept the best I have in weeks, the weather is gorgeous today, I have my coffee…”

“Did something happen since I last saw you yesterday?” she asks you conspiratorially, eyes narrowed. It’s in good humor though; despite her attempt to look mysterious, you can see the relief in her eyes.

Your smile widens, and you wiggle your eyebrows in response. As the two of you walk through the entrance gates, you catch sight of a now-familiar group of tall volleyball players. The quartet stands around in a loose circle, chatting with one another. Matsukawa is eating a breakfast bun, listening to whatever conversation Iwaizumi and Hanamaki are having as they look over what looks like notes in the former’s hand. Oikawa is on his phone but also seems to still be a part of the conversation, probably half-listening as he checks his social media.

You highly doubt Oikawa realizes how much his words struck a chord with you. It’s incredibly interesting—you know that his monologue had _absolutely_ nothing to do with your situation, yet you still found meaning in it. He clearly has some personal demons, just like you; and despite them probably be completely and utterly different from one another, there is still some semblance of common ground. Similar but different, different but similar.

And then there’s the fact that you actually heeded your sister’s advice; and she, somehow, turned out to be completely correct.

So yes, actually, a lot happened yesterday.

“(Name)-chan?” asks Momo, pulling you out of your reverie.

“I got some pretty wise advice recently,” you admit, smiling.

She blinks rapidly, obviously caught off-guard. “Oh, really? From whom?”

You decide that you’d like to keep Oikawa’s words to yourself, so you supply her with just half of the whole truth. “Umeko, of all people.”

“ _Wow, no way!_ ” shouts Momo, probably a bit louder than necessary. She looks fascinated. “What did she say? It must have been something sage-like if you actually listened.”

Maybe Momo’s outburst caught his attention, or maybe he just had a feeling that someone was staring at him; regardless of the reason, Oikawa suddenly looks up, briefly locking eyes with you. The moment is nothing special—there’s no jolt down your spine, no deep soul connection that’s often portrayed in dramatic TV scenes—and it’s over just as quickly as it happened. But when the brunette looks back down to his phone again, you swear that his smile is just a bit broader than before.

You find yourself smiling as well. “She didn’t say anything profound. She just reminded me of something I should have just done from the start.”

_“Why not just be yourself?”_

Yeah, it’s much better this way.

You loop your arm with Momo’s, gently tugging her towards the vending machines. “C’mon, let’s go grab a red bean bun before class. It was Umeko’s turn to cook this morning, and of course she overslept. I’m running on empty.”

“And you’re still in a good mood? Man, I’d be a demon if I didn’t eat breakfast!”

“She gets a free pass this time,” you say, smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Companion Song (for at least the first half): "Burned Out" by dodie
> 
> \---
> 
> Small references:
> 
> \- Umeboshi is a type of onigiri filling (side note my grandma used to put these in my onigiri and it was always an unpleasant surprise lol) - Takai calls Umeko this because "UMEko"... "UMEboshi..." :D  
> \- Nana and Hachi means "seven" and "eight" in Japanese. Kyu is "nine." So essentially Reader-chan's cats are named 7 and 8 lol. Inspo for the name "Nana" comes from the book "The Traveling Cat Chronicles" by Hiro Arikawa  
> \- I got a lot of the English idioms from this website: https://www.ef.com/ca/english-resources/english-idioms/
> 
> \---
> 
> are you alive after a 9k chapter? lol sorry. this was the last chapter I lost (technically I did lose the next one as well, but that one needed to be edited to a point where I was going to just scrap it), so i'm back up to speed! YAY! Just took me a month lololol
> 
> My brain has been not functioning properly from illness so I struggled a lot with this chapter, but I think it turned out okay? Can I just say I absolutely LOVE writing Umeko and Takai's relationship? it's like the funniest thing to me idk
> 
> Also I edited the story summary just a bit (added two sentences) - just so those of you who have been here from the beginning are aware! :)
> 
> I feel like I have more to say... but can't remember! Haha! Whoops. Thanks to everyone who takes the time to read, comment, and leave kudos. It's much appreciated xoxoxo :)


	6. It's Only June

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Just because you don't understand it doesn't mean it isn't so.”_ – Lemony Snicket

Oikawa is practically MIA the week-and-a-half leading up to June—or, at least, you see him considerably less than normal (not that you are with him on a regular basis, but still). He cancels two of your weekly meetings and apologizes that he doesn’t have the time to reschedule, which doesn’t bother you in the slightest. He also seems to be pulling a You back when you were trying to avoid him post-May’s Disastrous Dumpster Fire: he is always one of the first to leave after the final school bell dings, and he is one of the last to saunter back into the room after breaks. He has also been cutting it rather close to being tardy in the mornings, which is abnormal for him.

You are certain that it has more to do with something volleyball-related rather than with avoiding people—Oikawa? Avoiding attention? Pfft—and Iwaizumi confirms your suspicions one day when you run into him in the hallway. The spiky-haired brunette has been nothing but pleasant to you the few times you’ve talked, especially now that you’ve apologized for challenging him during the Fateful Picture Encounter (something that Momo isn’t very happy you did—“ _He’s_ the one who was being rude, (Name)-chan; you have no need to say sorry.”). In fact, the two of you have developed some sort of acquaintanceship… though you feel that Iwaizumi may just feel a kinship with you due to the fact that now there’s yet another person who has to shoulder the flippant captain’s antics.

Iwaizumi confirms that the Interhigh Qualifiers start at beginning of June—this weekend—so the team has been working tirelessly in preparation. Oikawa in particular has been going the extra mile, according to his friend; the captain always arrives early and stays late for both morning and afternoon practices, which is a point of contention between the two. (“That guy’s such a pain. He’s almost made _me_ late a few times. ‘Iwa-chan, are you my mom?’” Iwaizumi mimics, voice high-pitched and not at all like Oikawa’s real voice. “As if. Stupid Kusokawa.”)

That explains the borderline tardiness. You aren’t entirely sure what exactly this Interhigh tournament entails, but it seems important enough to the team. So you wish him good luck and go on your way, not thinking much about it.

A few days later when you’re with Momo at your usual café, she tries to convince you to come with her to said tournament. You instantly opt out—you have way more important things to do, like studying until you hate yourself or arguing with Umeko about which drama to watch with dinner—but Momo is a bit more pushy than normal.

“C’mon, (Name)-chan. Why don’t you want to go? It will be fun,” your best friend tells you. She sounds chipper, but her mouth is twisted down into a frown. She’s obviously not happy with your response.

You frown back, not bothering to tell her that her concept of fun is radically different from yours. Like that volleyball practice game, for instance—that most certainly was not _fun_ for you, even though she seemed to be having the time of her life. “Momo-chan, I really have other things to do. Sorry,” you say. When she sighs, disappointed, you can’t help but furrow your eyebrows. _What’s the big deal?_ you think. It’s just one tournament. It’s not like there won’t be others; it’s only June, after all! They practically have the whole year left.

Momo purses her lips and looks at you for a long minute, steel eyes narrowed. Finally she sighs again and lets her shoulders slump, relenting. “Fine, I’ll just get Fucchan to go with me.”

You snort. “Yeah, good luck. Like you—or _anyone_ —can get Fumiko-chan to do anything.”

“Don’t underestimate the power of my sway, (Name)-chan!”

Much to your surprise, Momo ends up convincing Fumiko to go. You find this out via Instagram on Sunday night, when you’re taking a mini-break from studying. Momo has posted a few pictures from the weekend, all of them expertly edited to fit the Photographer Aesthetic she upholds on her account. There’s one of her and Fumiko, followed by a collage of the scoreboards from each of Seijoh’s matches. You’re surprised to see Torino’s name, and you find yourself wondering how Glasses Guy fared this time against Oikawa’s vicious serve. Obviously not great since they lost according to the photo, but you hope for his sake there was some personal growth (as he seemed completely uninterested in volleyball last time you saw him).

The last picture Momo posted makes your eye twitch—it’s of her and Oikawa. Your friend looks just as nervous as last time, but you’re not entirely surprised. Oikawa, despite being sweaty, _still_ manages to look cool, posing with a peace sign and giving a handsome grin. You don’t know what makes you more annoyed—the fact that the volleyball captain can look good despite being drenched in sweat (seriously, how is that fair?), or the fact that this picture is proof that Momo could have gotten someone else to take that first photo for her way back in April. You decide that it’s the latter, and open your phone to send her a message.

**You:** _hmmmmm so what was that thing about me having to be the one to go with you that one day? because if anyone else was taking the picture you’d be too embarrassed? or am I remembering it wrong, please tell me_

 **Sato Momo:** _(Nameeeee)-chan, can I just say that salty is def not a good look on you? oof_

**Sato Momo:** _besides, that picture you took was so dark I couldnt use it. not worthy of the Gram_

**Sato Momo:** _and you got your ice cream and coffee so its all ok now right?_ <3

You smirk. Although that day was a minor inconvenience on your end and you still like to grumble about it, there was no real harm done. You begin to type, changing the subject.

**You:** _honestly shocked that you got fumiko-chan to go with you_

 **Sato Momo:** _I told you—don’t underestimate my power~ though she said never again lol_

**You:** _lol_

You pause again, fingers hovering over the screen. Even though at the end of the day the results don’t affect you at all, you can’t help but be a bit curious, especially since both Iwaizumi _and_ Momo made it seem like this tournament was a big deal for some reason.

**You:** _so seijoh won?_

Momo sends a sticker of a shocked panda. Seeing it automatically makes you deadpan and roll your eyes.

**Sato Momo:** _you care?!_

**You:** ヽ(ー_ー )ノ _cmon_

 **Sato Momo:** _well you just seemed SO not about supporting your school’s team so how am I supposed to know_

 **You:** _Momo-chan_

**Sato Momo:** _just kidding~_

**Sato Momo:** _we haven’t won just yet—tomorrow’s the semi-finals and finals. though I have no doubt we’ll do well. We have oikawa-kun, after all! he's so cool~ you can tell he really knows the team well and can bring out the best in everyone_ (≧▽≦)/

You aren’t quite sure what that last bit means, but that’s most likely because you don’t understand volleyball. It probably has to do with Oikawa’s job as a… what did Momo call it again? Catcher? Placer? Regardless of the name, you do remember he won some sort of award for it, so it’s no surprise that he can “bring out the best in everyone,” whatever that means. So you hum, type a quick “Good luck to them,” and leave it at that.

The next day at school you notice that Oikawa’s seat is indeed empty. While changing after gym class (which leaves your face shiny and a few shades of patchy red—seriously, how _does_ Oikawa manage to look so good, and why don’t you have that ability?), you overhear some of the other girls chatting, buzzing with excitement. Apparently the team won their morning game and will be moving onto the finals in the afternoon. Momo confirms this at lunch—one of her many friends is a member of the team, so the brunette gets the inside scoop pretty instantly—and spends a large chunk of lunchtime talking about how cool it is that they’re going to the finals, it’s a big deal for Seijoh, every starting member is so cool especially Oikawa-kun you know with the Interhigh—

(You quickly drown her out and she doesn’t seem to notice or care, too lost in her own train of Volleyball Thought.)

During the afternoon you catch your eyes drifting over to the empty seat on a few occasions. At the end of the day the hallways are filled with animated chitchat:

“Hey, do you know if the final match is still going? Maybe we can still make it if we hurry!”

“Ah, I wish I could go~ Hajime-kun looks so cool when he spikes the ball!”

“The first years ain’t no slouches themselves, either. I’ve heard the team’s particularly good this year.”

“Does anyone know if Matsukawa’s volleyball uniform looks better on him than his school one?”

As you walk home alone from school, you wonder how the team is doing—or how they did, as you’re not sure if they’re still playing. You ruminate about Iwaizumi’s words regarding Oikawa’s behavior, and you can’t help but be a little surprised and impressed at the captain’s tenacity. Oikawa easily seems like someone who would be a flake, especially when he has that fake (?) Easy Smile plastered on his face. He seems to be the type of person who would move through life, bouncing from thing to thing, not worrying if something didn’t work out.

But then again, that’s just what it _seems_ like. It’s just yet another face—because on the flipside you remember the seriousness you saw when he was playing that one scrimmage a few weeks back. And when you think of _that_ Oikawa, the tenacity isn’t shocking at all.

Tenacity, passion, drive, grit—

Your fingers suddenly twitch, and you blink.

 _Well, whatever_ , you think, shaking your head. Now’s not the time to get lost in your thoughts again. You just want to go home, study until you hate yourself, argue with Umeko about which drama to watch with dinner—you know, the usual. You’ll find out who won the tournament tomorrow. And although do you hope the best for your school’s team, you know that, although disappointment will be present, it won’t be the end of the world if they lose.

There are plenty of other tournaments, you’re sure. After all, it’s only June.

* * *

The next day, you get your answer about the tourney results—not directly, but based on everyone’s reaction, it’s easy to put two and two together.

Oikawa is early today; it’s the first time in two weeks. He’s sitting in his seat when you come in for homeroom, surrounded by fellow students. You don’t get the best look at his face due to the volume of people, but from the cursory glance you catch, he looks pleasant enough… though you note that it’s just a little off, almost as if his normal airy ambience has been slightly muted. You can hear bits and pieces of the multi-person conversation—things like “Sorry to hear” and “What’s the next step?”—and the captain keeps giving easy-going smiles and answers that you can’t hear. But when the bell tolls and everyone scurries off, you see how that pleasant expression slips off his face, morphing into something sharp and annoyed.

Unlike Oikawa, Iwaizumi’s ire is very easy to spot. During break you stand in the hallway with Fumiko to stretch your legs. The two of you are chatting when your friend suddenly goes “ _Yikes_ ” and points down the hall; when you look, you see the throng of students quickly parting like the Red Sea, making way for a very menacing aura trying to make its way back to Classroom 5. As Anger Incarnate makes its way closer to you, you realize it’s just Iwaizumi—but a very pissed-off Iwaizumi, one that doesn’t seem to bother hiding his irritation. You wave to your acquaintance when he looks up, trying to make your face as amicable as possible. Much to his credit, he _does_ try to give a small smile back… but the attempt just makes him look scarier, and you swear you feel yourself begin to sweat. Fumiko utters another “ _Yikes_ ” when he’s gone, and you can’t help but agree with her sentiment.

Luckily Hanamaki and Matsukawa, the other two team members you are somewhat familiar with, are not nearly as dramatic as the other two from their quartet. You run into them at the end of the day near the shoe lockers, together as they always seem to be. Hanamaki flashes you a small peace sign and Matsukawa extends an invitation to join them for food (which you unfortunately have to decline due to dance), but you notice that both seem quite exhausted, both emotionally and physically.

Obviously things did not go as planned for the team. You do feel bad—losing is never fun—but you’re sure that things will begin to bounce back to normal by tomorrow.

But when Oikawa meets you at your house the next night to study, it’s quite obvious that _no_ , things are not returning to the status quo. No effort has been made to revert the negative feelings; in fact, it’s almost as if it’s gotten worse.

Now that it’s just you (rather than the small, chatty, inquisitive crowds that have been following him around), Oikawa has no qualms about showing how he truly feels about the whole situation. This rare show of authenticity, coupled with the fact that he’s practically _exuding_ annoyance, leaves you on-edge. He works on your joint budget in relative silence, which is quite out-of-character for him, only answering questions when asked. He doesn’t make any unwarranted, petty comments even when scrolling through social media, and the only smiles he _sort of_ does are kind of twisted, snarky, and very dry. Even your cats can tell something’s wrong. For reasons completely unknown to you, they normally adore Oikawa; today, however, they sit on your bed, watching him warily.

You debate with yourself about what you should do. Your brain just says to leave him alone, the best thing to do is to let him be, he’s had enough people the past two days expressing their condolences and asking him plethora of questions. Your heart, on the other hand, is telling you it’s best to address the elephant in the room, his mood can’t get any worse if you ask ( _debatable,_ your brain argues), it’ll show that you at least sort of care.

Both sides of the argument hold merit; but after about forty-five minutes of feeling uncomfortable around (and being distracted by) his soured mood, you decide to bite the bullet and talk. And because you have a habit of letting words just tumble haphazardly out of your mouth when you’re feeling awkward and/or are deep in thought, you ask the dumbest question possible, one whose answer is painfully obvious:

“All good?”

Oikawa’s cool chocolate gaze slides to you and you feel yourself sit up just a little bit straighter. “Surprised you care,” he grumbles, words dripping with sarcasm.

You blink, a little taken aback, and find yourself frowning. You weren’t expecting any sort of flirty reply—those stopped _way_ back in April—but you also didn’t anticipate he would be so snarky, so sarcastic… so Assikawa, as you heard Iwaizumi refer to him a few times. “I asked, didn’t I?” you retort.

The brunette purses his lips, looking down at his notebook. He’s quiet for a bit before he mumbles, “We lost.”

That’s obvious enough, but saying that is not going to help. “Want to talk about it?” you ask instead.

“What is there to say?”

You shrug, muttering, “I dunno.” You pause before adding, a little bit quieter than before, “Just thought I’d ask.”

Oikawa once again doesn’t say anything for a bit, but then eventually sighs. “This was going to be our year,” he tells you bitterly. “We were so close… but of course that stupid bastard ruins everything. Stupid left-hand spike, stupid Shiratorizawa, stupid—”

At some point he started writing, crunching numbers for your weekly groceries. The further he goes into his mini monologue, the more forceful his pen strokes get, the heavy-handed ink looking ugly and misshapen compared to his normal light-handed writing. It’s obvious he’s very upset.

Left hand, volleyball, Shiratorizawa… You quickly put all the clues together and blink, realizing who he’s talking about. “Wait,” you say. “Are you talking about Ushi-kun?”

“Ush— _Ushi-kun?_ ” Oikawa’s now looking at you like you’ve grown a third head.

“Ushijima Wakatoshi. Sorry, habit. Is that who you’re talking about?”

“Yeah, but… _Ushi-kun_?”

You furrow your eyebrows. You don’t think it’s _that_ weird. “We used to be neighbors,” you clarify. “Went to the same elementary school, too.”

You lived right next-door to the Ushijimas prior to your family moving three years ago. Although you two were never close growing up, you did a few things together: sometimes you’d try to catch the volleyballs he’d hit (this activity had a very short lifespan, as it was apparent after a few months that you just couldn’t keep up), occasionally you’d read the newest manga anthology side-by-side (though you always got impatient because he liked to read _everything_ , including the advertisements—who does that?), and on a good weather day the two of you would walk to school together (usually in relative silence). You wonder how he’s doing now—you only occasionally saw him after he started going to Shiratorizawa Academy Junior High, and haven’t seen him at all since you’ve moved—but you highly doubt asking Oikawa will result in a unbiased answer.

Oikawa’s mouth makes an O and he leans closer to you, suddenly very interested. It seems as though curiosity has overridden his annoyance, at least temporarily. You find yourself leaning back, a little uncomfortable that he’s in your personal bubble. “Is that so? What was he like?” Oikawa asks you.

You hum, looking up at the ceiling as you contemplate. “He was always kind of—”

“A pain in the ass? Annoying? The worst?”

“I was going to say _serious_ , but…” You trail off, watching as your partner quickly sours again. You don’t know what he wanted to hear, but it obviously wasn’t what you supplied. You observe him for a bit longer as he goes back to his notes, muttering incoherent things under his breath and running a hand agitatedly through his hair.

It’s standard to have rivalries in anything competitive; this you’ve seen and personally experienced. But based on what you’re seeing right now, you’re starting to get the sense that whatever’s going on between the two volleyball players—or maybe it’s just one-sided, you don’t know—goes beyond the standard friendly rivalry. It seems deeper, almost as though this loss is a personal attack for Oikawa.

You don’t get it at all… but then again, there’s a lot you don’t get about the captain. You suddenly get the strange urge to cheer him up, and you tell yourself that it’s just because he’s really insufferable in this particular mood.

(That, and he keeps calculating things wrong.)

You decide to tell him the first thing that pops into your mind. “My friend Momo once hit Ushi-kun in the face with a volleyball. Not hard enough to cause any harm, but… yeah.”

This catches Oikawa’s attention. He looks at you with slightly widened eyes, and you don’t miss the small smirk that quirks its way up to his face—not surprisingly, he finds this amusing. “Like… on purpose?” he asks.

You wave your hands. “No, no. She’s not that violent.” Though she _does_ offer to kick Tatsuya in the shins a lot… But you guess that that’s more circumstantial than anything. “It was purely accidental. She had the _biggest_ crush on him growing up, and one day asked him for tips with volleyball…”

(Despite living on the complete opposite side of town and only seeing Ushijima when she came over to your house, Momo was head-over-heels for your neighbor for the tail end of elementary school and the vast majority of middle school. You were never entirely sure why or how this happened—“(Name)-chan, you can’t control the _who_ s, _what_ s, _when_ s, _where_ s, or _why_ s of love~!” she’d always tell you, despite you retorting, “We’re only eleven, we don’t know _love._ ”—but her infatuation persisted unwaveringly for years. In fact, Ushijima is the reason Momo got into volleyball in the first place; you remember her telling him, “Ushi-chan, I’m going to learn everything there is to know about volleyball, and become your biggest fan!”

His response was, in typical Ushi fashion, “Okay, best of luck.”

During your second of middle school, it was announced early on that a school-wide volleyball tournament would be happening during autumn’s Sports Day. Momo, despite knowing the sport like that back of her hand, had never played—but she knew _someone_ who did. So, finding this an excellent opportunity to bond/impress/whatever she was trying to with Ushijima, she devised a plan; during summer vacation, she “just happened” to be at your house the majority of the break, and when he came back home from academy for a few days, she struck.

He didn’t seem to mind helping her too much, but it was quite apparent that she did _not_ have any natural talent for anything athletic. Her aim and control were absolutely terrible; her serves frequently drifted off into trees, and although her spikes packed a punch—as much as any beginner’s could—they were always at weird angles. You were lucky that Ushijima had fast reflexes; had he not been there, you almost certainly would have been pegged a few times by a stray ball.

In a way, it was sort of your fault he got hit in the first place. You were sitting on the porch, working on summer homework while the two were outside in the backyard. Unsurprisingly, kanji was giving you a hard time. You couldn’t remember how many strokes the kanji for “gulf” had, and so without much thought you vocalized, “‘Gulf’ has how many strokes…?”

A shadow loomed over you—Ushijima, coming to your rescue. “Gulf has twel—”

And then there was the _smack_ of a ball hitting flesh as Momo’s spike careened off course and into Ushijima’s cheek. You remember the look of sheer horror on Momo’s face as she registered what happened. When Ushijima blinked, looked at the ball laying by his feet, and then slowly turned toward your friend, she panicked.

And Sato Momoko—one of the most bold and fearless girls you knew—turned and ran away, sputtering and wailing utter gibberish. You _did_ catch a few “Oh my God”s and “I’m so sorry” in the mix, but you doubted that Ushijima understood the babble.

“Are you okay?” you asked him after a few seconds.

“Yeah, didn’t feel much,” Ushi responded, despite the bright welt rapidly appearing on his cheek. “So like I was saying, ‘gulf’ has twelve strokes—”)

When you finish your story, you’re surprised that Oikawa looks completely and utterly unfazed. You begin to question whether or not you should have said anything in the first place when he suddenly asks, “Do you have a picture of her?”

It’s an odd request, but you relent and show him your phone’s lock screen—it’s a picture of you and Momo from last year’s summer festival. She had set it as your background way back when, and you hadn’t bothered to change it since. Oikawa takes your phone, humming.

“She looks familiar,” he comments, but he shows no sign of recognition otherwise. You decide you won’t mention to your friend that her object of adoration doesn’t remember her. “She’s a student at Seijoh?”

“Yeah—Class 5.”

He looks at the photo again. “She’s cute.”

“The cutest,” you agree.

Oikawa suddenly scowls, handing you back your phone. “ _Feh_. Why would someone as cute as her like someone like _him_?”

You refrain from deadpanning— _that’s_ what he got out of your story? But maybe you shouldn’t be so surprised, considering how petty he’s been before. “She has a type,” you tell him, shrugging.

By that you most certainly just meant _volleyball players_ , but Oikawa takes it a step further. “You mean the ugly, brooding type?”

“Ushi-kun isn’t ugly.”

“Maybe not, but his personality for sure doesn’t help.”

 _Like yours does, either_. “It’s not _that_ bad…”

“Then why don’t _you_ date Ushiwaka, hmm?”

Man, he’s really salty today. You frown. “I don’t want to. Beside, we’re all graduating in March. Why would bother getting into a relationship now?”

You know it’s cynical and comes from a jaded place, but it’s true. The third year of high school is the most stressful and also the one with the most change. Why would you want to fall in love when there are so many more important things to focus on, like making sure you get into a good university? Or why bother when you don’t even know if you’ll be in the same city as your significant other? Japan is no America or anything, but it’s also not a small country.

Oikawa looks at you with an expression you can’t exactly place. Finally he just shrugs, saying, “Sometimes things can’t be helped~” He waves his hand about flippantly. “At least you have better taste than your friend.”

Your mouth quirks upward just the slightest at the fact that Oikawa’s inadvertently insulting himself. Though, to be fair, you’re not entirely sure if Momo’s infatuation with him is genuine, or just fangirl behavior—you think it’s the latter, but you don’t really care enough to find out. You switch the subject back, asking a question that’s been on your mind since the start of the conversation. “So what’s your deal with him?”

The lighter mood that Oikawa had immediately evaporates, morphing into something somber and dark. Your partner is quiet for a bit, lips pursed, but then he answers your question. “I— _we_ —have been losing to him since middle school. It’s infuriating.”

You blink, a little surprised. You don’t know where Oikawa went to middle school, but Momo did say that Seijoh is a powerhouse… “Shiratorizawa is that strong?” you query.

Oikawa scowls. “Don’t make it sound like they’re invincible. Our team is just as good, despite what _he_ thinks.”

“Ushi-kun?”

“‘Oikawa, you let your pride choose for you, and it chose wrong. Plant seeds in infertile soil, and no fruit will be born. You should have come to Shiratorizawa,’” says Oikawa, voice monotone to mimic Ushijima. “As if I would want to. Poetic while insulting—pisses me off.” The words drip with bitterness and anger.

“That sounds extreme,” you murmur.

“Are you surprised?” Oikawa asks you flatly.

No, not really. The flourish language used, yes—you never really pegged him as poetic, but maybe that’s just Oikawa’s rendition—but the core of the message, no. Even when he was younger, Ushijima always spoke in a very blunt and direct manner. Nothing was ever sugarcoated. It sounds like he hasn’t changed too much since then; if he really believed Oikawa was a wasted talent at Aoba Johsai, he would say it.

“So if you _could_ have gone to Shiratorizawa, why didn’t you?” you ask.

“Why didn’t _you_?” counters Oikawa. “You lived nearby”—not quite true, but that’s okay—“and you’re certainly smart enough to pass the entrance exam. Didn’t want to go to an elitist school?” Now his words sound nasty, almost mocking.

You could have very well gone to Shiratorizawa. In fact, you had toyed with the idea for a few months back when you were deciding on where to go to high school. But Momo for sure wasn’t going to go there—try as she might, she just doesn’t test very well—and Tatsuya… well, Tatsuya wanted to go to Seijoh, so of course you followed—

“Wasn’t a good fit,” you decide to say. Half-truth, half-lie. “But that doesn’t answer my question."

"Wasn’t a good fit,” repeats Oikawa for his response. “Besides, I certainly couldn’t beat him if we’re on the same team, now could I?”

He uses a light, airy tone, but you can hear the hunger lying beneath. Again, you get the sense that there’s more to the rivalry than what’s being told. You think back to his words from a few weeks ago, back when he was describing what drove him: _“There’s always going to be some prodigy ahead of you.”_ Was he talking about Ushi-kun, or someone else?

“When do you play him next?”

Oikawa looks at you with another unreadable expression. “What do you mean?” he asks thickly.

“Certainly that wasn’t your last game of the year,” you say, eyebrows furrowed. “You’re not _done_ done, right? Seems kind of a waste. It’s only June.” You for sure don’t understand the volleyball season structure, but it seems rather early to retire. You know that eventually the third years will quit if they’re university-bound, but it seems just a little odd for it all to implode so soon after all of the blood, sweat, and tears they put into their sport.

Oikawa doesn’t speak for a long time—much longer than you are expecting. He seems deep in thought, eyes flickering as he remembers something you don’t understand. Finally, he smirks. The grin is wide and confident, brightening his whole face. You blink, surprised. This is much different from any of the smiles you’ve seen on his face in the past.

“It _is_ a waste, isn’t it?” he asks, looking up at you. That negative mood has completely vanished, overtaken by something confident and steadfast. “No, we’re not _done_ done. We’ll be going to Nationals this year.”

See, look—another tournament, and a _national_ one, at that. You don’t understand what all the fuss was about this Interhigh thing or whatever. You find yourself smiling. “Great, so Nationals it is. I’m counting on you to prove Ushi-kun wrong, okay?”

The surprise is evident on Oikawa’s face. He stares at you for a bit before the grin gets even wider.

“You got it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man Reader-chan has NO clue lol. will she ever understand volleyball?? that is the forever question
> 
> also mentions of a wild ushi appear! :D 
> 
> i'm almost caught up with the manga and my brain is starting to form ideas for a Semi fic... i keep getting distracted by them and i keep having to put my brain back on oikawa-mode!! there are just too many wonderful hq characters, and so little time to write for all of them hahah :') maybe one day
> 
> thanks for reading!


	7. Instinct

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“People usually think with their brain or go with their heart, but a good place to start is if you have a gut feeling.”_ – Emma Mackey

At the beginning of July, you realize that you’re almost already finished with the first term of the year. This mean a few things: 1) exams are coming up, 2) summer vacation is coming up, and 3) you don’t feel particularly prepared for either.

Coach Takai recently announced that the Dance Club would be participating in a five-day camp at the beginning of break. Although most members seemed quite excited, you couldn’t (and still can’t) say that you’re looking forward to it at all. Takai didn’t give much detail; all he said was that he expected everyone to attend and that it would be held in Kurihara, a city about an hour north of Sendai. Why it’s being held there you don’t know, but your mom did mention that there is some nice scenery in the area.

(“Ooooh, Lake Izunuma will have lotus blooming!” she tells you as she fills out the travel permission slip. She hands it back to you, completely oblivious to your small sigh of disappointment—since she signed it, that means that now you have no legitimate excuse not to attend. “Maybe he chose that city because you can gain inspiration from nature?”

“Yeah, sure…” you say, despite the fact that that’s not really how it works, _especially_ for you. 

“Well how exciting that Dance Club is getting back to having camps! I remember how much Ume-chan loved those. Make sure to take lots of pictures, honey—I’m sure you’ll have lots of fun!”

“…Okay…”)

The one good thing is that the camp coincides with Momo’s Photo Koshien competition, which means that you have a bit more flexibility as to when you’ll take what Momo calls the “Momo and (Name)’s Annual Summer Vacation Extravaganza,” A.K.A. the yearly trip you’ve been going on together since middle school. This will be the first one the two of you have taken by yourselves—in the past, you’d always just tag along with the Sato family somewhere, and she’d do the same with you and your kin—so the two of you have been brainstorming for the past few months about where to go. Since university has the potential to change everything (neither of you know how busy you’ll be, let alone if you’re going to be in the same city… or prefecture… or region), this very much could be the last trip you two take together for a long time; therefore, you want to go somewhere big. No daytrips to the _onsen_ for you!

Since Japan has many possible travel destinations, you decided to set criteria for yourselves to help narrow down the possibilities: 1) the place has to be fun (Momo’s primary concern), 2) worth your time (that was mostly your idea), and 3) it must be decently affordable (which both of you wholeheartedly agreed on, as who has any money in high school?).

After a bit of back and forth, you two recently settled on Tokyo. The nation’s capital is for sure fun—Momo’s been going on and on about how she wants to go to Tokyo Disneyland as well as see the newly-built Tokyo Skytree, despite the fact that tickets have been consistently sold out since its public opening (“You’ll have to settle for the Tokyo Tower,” you told her, to which she responded, “ _Lame_! It looks like any ordinary transmissions tower.”)—and although Tokyo really isn’t all that affordable, Momo’s cousin studies at Todai and has graciously offered free lodging for the days you’re visiting.

Tokyo also gives you both an opportunity to visit one of the universities on each of your interest lists. Momo, unsurprisingly, wants to visit Tokyo Polytechnic University due to their Photography Department; and although you’d really like to go see Keio University, you know that you should visit Tokyo University because that’s the place you’re expected to—

So Tokyo: 

Fun? Definitely. 

Affordable? Not really, but the generosity of a very stressed out graduate student helps out a lot.

Worth your time? If you stop being a Negative Nancy… yes?

But before all that, you need to worry about exams—and worry you do. This happens every year: you realize you have less than a month before exams, panic (despite the fact that you’re probably way ahead of the game due to your normal, diligent study routine), and then proceed to bury yourself even deeper into your study materials.

(And these are just _school exams_. You can’t imagine what you’re going to be like once Entrance Exam season comes around, God have mercy on your soul.)

Same old frenzied process, same old sleepless nights. The only difference is that now you have someone who studies with you.

Oikawa has resumed your weekly Wednesday meetups now that he’s calmed down from whatever that volleyball thing was last month. Working with him _somehow_ ends up always being incredibly productive, so by the time you begin to freak out about exams, you’ve done enough collective work on your Budget Project that you can also slip in a bit of studying during your time together. Usually it’s mostly you doing the intense studying—Oikawa studies too, but likes to take breaks often ( _Is he not worried at all?_ you always wonder. _Must be nice_.)—but having him there proves to be quite useful for you. Turns out that he takes very good notes in class, so you’re able to cross-reference his when you’re not certain of what you wrote down; and although he likes to complain when you ask him to quiz you, he generally complies with just a moderate amount of snark.

You guess normally having him around to study is a good thing—or at least it’s an _okay_ thing. 

But today, after he sighs loudly for what seems to be the millionth time, you don’t think having him around is nice at all.

You know he’s doing it deliberately to get your attention, which is incredibly irritating—but what’s worse is that although you’re trying your hardest to ignore him, you’re having a very hard time doing so. Every sigh seems to be a little bit louder, a little bit longer. He’s even gotten to the point where he’s laying his cheek down on your coffee table, sighing in a way that the edge of your notes flutter with every breath. You feel your eye begin to twitch, eyebrows furrowing in an attempt to concentrate. You swear you see Oikawa’s lips twitch upward in response to your frustration.

After about twenty minutes of this, you’ve had enough. You put your pen down, frowning at him. “Will you quit if I ask what’s wrong?”

“Maybe.” Now he doesn’t bother to hide his smirk at all— _of course_ he doesn’t, now that he’s gotten his way.

“You’re impossible,” you mutter, giving a sigh of your own. “Okay, what’s up with all the heavy sighing.” It’s more of a statement rather than a concerned question. 

“Glad you asked—you’re _so_ kind.” The sarcasm makes you roll your eyes, but the captain pays no mind. He props his chin up on the table, staring at the wall with a neutral expression. “I got dumped last week,” he announces. “You should comfort your dear partner in his time of need, you know.”

Oh.

He says the news so casually that it’s hard to tell how upset he actually is—or if he is at all. Regardless, you decide to treat it with sincerity. “I’m sorry,” you tell him.

(You also push your steaming mug closer to him and say, “Here, have the rest of my coffee. That always comforts me,” but he doesn’t seem too appreciative. 

“It’s 7 p.m. Why are you drinking caffeine so late, anyway?”)

“Was it serious?” you ask, though based on how _not_ broken up he looks, you have a general idea of what his answer is going to be.

“Not really,” Oikawa says lightly, shrugging. “We had only been seeing each other since like April.”

Four months—not the longest, but definitely long enough to be more than casual, right? You think so… but then again, you don’t have the best track record, so is your opinion really valid?

“Why are you sighing so much, then?” you question.

“I’m a man, (Name)-chan—we don’t like being rejected!” Oikawa actually has the audacity to pretend to be hurt at your query.

“I don’t think anyone does, really…”

He ignores your quip entirely. “What bothers me is that I don’t really know what I did wrong. I am a _great_ boyfriend—don’t you pull an Iwa-chan and roll your eyes at me; it’s true!” he interjects after seeing your look. 

“I wasn’t!” That’s untrue; you were _totally_ about to roll your eyes. Oikawa catches things easily, that’s for sure.

“Liar,” he says, pouting. “ _Anyway_ , she said something about being too crazy about volleyball and not spending enough time with her, which I find offensive. Like _puh-lease,_ just because it’s a priority doesn’t mean I push everything else to the side, I mean look I find time to study with _you_ after all—”

“What is that supposed to mean—”

“—and it’s also a _little_ hypocritical because every time _I_ had time to do something, she was all like, ‘Oh no, sorry, I need to start preparing for my fall dance competition’ or whatever—”

“Wait, dance?”

He looks at you, eyes half-lidded in annoyance that you keep cutting him off. “Yes? Or ballet, or whatever club is at Seijoh—”

“Who is it?” you interrupt again.

The brunette blinks at you, surprised. “What?”

“Who is it?” you repeat, interest piqued. You weren’t aware he was dating someone you knew.

“Ogasawara Minami,” he tells you, frowning when he sees your eyes light up in recognition. “Don’t tell me you _actually_ know her.”

“Yes, _actually_.”

At this your partner sighs dramatically. “First I find out that you were neighbors with that Bastard Ushiwaka, and now you’re friends with my ex-girlfriend—do you know _everyone_ in my personal life?” He leans toward you, eyebrow raised conspiratorially. “Are you secretly dating Iwa-chan and I don’t know it? I see you guys talking.”

You scoff. “I’m very single, thanks. Also I wouldn’t say that Minami-san and I are friends… just acquaintances. We’re in Dance Club together.”

Minami is a third year who is well-known and well-liked at Seijoh due to her kind, friendly personality and stunning looks. She has long, dark blonde hair that always seems to be lightly curled (which is a trend you’ve noticed your fellow students trying to imitate, including Momo despite her short bob) and eyes that are the most vibrant shade of forest green you’ve ever seen. You’ve never seen her be nothing _but_ nice to literally everyone, including the oddballs like half-German Schwartz-san in your class. You make a mental note to check up on her next time you see her, probably at the end of a practice. Breakups, no matter how casual they seem to be, are never fun.

Oikawa pulls you out of your thoughts by saying, “You’re a dancer?” He’s looking at you curiously, if not a bit taken aback.

“Do I not look like one?” you ask, frowning.

He frowns back, rebuking. “How was I supposed to know? You said you hated athletics a while back. I assumed you really _were_ lazy and just the smart type.”

“I said that I hate _playing_ athletics, not that I am _not_ athletic,” you mutter flatly.

“Sorry, sorry~” Oikawa says, despite the fact he doesn’t sound sorry in the least.

“You know, Minami-san probably didn’t break up with you because of volleyball—it’s probably due to your personality.” It’s petty, you know, but you can’t help it. Is Oikawa’s nasty behavior rubbing off on you? Oh no.

“Says the single one.” As always, he has some sort of retort. A grin snakes its way up onto Oikawa’s face. He obviously thinks he’s so witty and smart.

“You’re single now, too,” you inform him, your own smirk flitting up onto your face when the brunette balks.

“(Name)-chan!”

“I spoke nothing but the truth.”

“But—ugh. Fine. Touché~”

Your grin widens at the fact that you won, a rare thing against Oikawa. “No need to worry,” you start to say without much thought, “there are—”

**_“Tatsuya-kun! There’s this new okonomiyaki restaurant that just opened up downtown—do you want to go together?”_ **

The words die on your lips instantly, and you flinch at the unwanted memory. Dammit.

It’s been a while since Tatsuya came into your mind without warning. It’s happened only a handful of times since May; but like always, his appearances come unwarranted, uninvited, and they always send your thoughts and emotions scattering. Thankfully, however, you now have the ability to reign everything in and return to normal after just a few short moments, and you’re even starting to discover (which means you can avoid) certain things that set off his memory—like walking through that park where you finally confronted him about his behavior, or accidentally stumbling upon some Italian arias on a random study playlist, as Tatsuya _loved_ to dance to those. Unfortunately for you, though, it looks like talking with Oikawa about anything remotely romantic seems to be a new catalyst. Unsurprising in hindsight, but also still incredibly frustrating.

Oikawa’s eyes are on you, gaze suddenly very sharp. “There are plenty of fish in the sea,” you say, forcing yourself to finish your sentence. You’re trying to sound light-hearted but it falls flat, muted. You deliberately choose not to voice your original statement—“There are plenty of girls eager to throw their attention at you”—as you don’t trust your ability to hide the bitterness from Oikawa’s observation.

His gaze intensifies even further to the point where you start to feel uncomfortable. Those rich brown orbs reveal nothing of what the athlete is thinking, and it’s unsettling. You feel as though you’re in front of one of those two-way mirrors— _you_ can’t see anything except your own reflection, but the person on the other side can see everything with stark clarity. Your hands begin to fidget, and you decide to go back to practicing your kanji in an attempt to distract yourself from the scrutiny. 

Finally Oikawa leans back, an airy smile flitting up onto his face. “Very true~” he tells you. The words are light and whimsical, but the sentiment falls just as flat as yours did. He then reaches over to tap your notebook. “You wrote that radical wrong.” Thankfully he’s switching the subject, not bothering to pry.

You look, and it seems you did—not surprising, though, considering how you weren’t really paying attention anyway. You scribble out the kanji and then begin to write it again.

“Still wrong. You know, (Name)-chan, I’m not sure what you want to do with your life, but I’m thinking that writing is definitely _not_ in the stars for you.”

“Listen, kanji is hard, _okay_? And it’s not like _this_ one is commonly used.”

Oikawa gives you a shit-eating grin but says nothing further, merely going back to his phone like always. You continue your quest for perfecting your kanji, though you find that your thoughts keep circling back to the previous conversation. 

You had no idea that Oikawa was dating someone like Minami. It’s both surprising and unsurprising to you. On a purely physical basis it makes sense; both are overall objectively attractive. Minami is known to date the athletic type—the rumor is that she has only dated team captains, but you don’t know much about that (plus isn’t that rather niche?)—and for Oikawa he seems like the type who’d date someone tall, lean, fit, probably blonde and pretty and confident like Minami-san—

You shake your head to stop the thoughts. You’re typecasting, yet again making assumptions about things you don’t know. You find yourself frowning; why do you do this so much with Oikawa?

“If you keep making that face, you’ll permanently look angry like Iwa-chan, (Name)-chan~”

Aaaand then there’s the part that’s the most surprising about this whole Oikawa/Minami pairing: Oikawa’s personality. Minami seems like an actual angel and Oikawa is… Oikawa. Easy-going, carefree, relaxed, confident—but also callous, snarky, petty, childish. Two very different sides.

Did Minami know going into it all? Did she know that what is presented at the beginning is not what it really turns out to be—

**_“Hey, (Name), why the face? Remember you said you didn’t mind the attention—I don’t get why you look so upset now. I told you that it doesn’t mean anything.”_ **

**_Yes but it really doesn’t feel like nothing Tatsuya, you keep telling me over and over that_ ** **it doesn’t mean anything _and I want to believe you but I can’t get my heart and my head to agree and I don’t know which one to follow, are you really sure it doesn’t mean anything, it doesn’t feel like it a lot of the time—_**

_Go away, Tatsuya._

Your grip tightens on your pen, the plastic biting into your skin. You don’t want to—nor need to, nor _can_ —deal with this right now.

When you look up Oikawa is once again watching you with those sharp eyes. It’s scary how perceptive he seems to be sometimes, how he has the ability to pick up on the smallest of things. Suddenly you feel a small wash of worry—is he aware of what you’re thinking? Certainly no, considering he doesn’t know everything that happened, but he might be able to put the pieces together, he doesn’t need to know, you don’t _want_ him to know—

You decide to deflect, hoping to draw him away from whatever he’s thinking. “Something on my face?” you drawl, trying to sound as bored as you can despite the small panic happening inside.

The acute stare immediately melts into something a bit more mischievous. “Well yes, a mouth and a nose—”

“C’mon—”

“—and a pair of eyes that _still_ don’t notice that that stroke is supposed to lean to the left, not the right.”

“It—it’s so small that no one will notice, _okay_?”

“I noticed~”

“You—I—ugh, whatever.”

That seems to once again pull Oikawa away from his scrutiny. You keep your face as neutral as possible for the rest of the time he’s at your house, trying to focus on anything but the thoughts swirling in your head. The moment he leaves, though, you’re once again wrapped back up. You plop on the couch with a sigh, staring at the ceiling. Hachi comes to curl up on your stomach, and you pet his soft fur idly as you let your mind roam free.

Confident, charming, smart, attractive—they are all similarities you can’t deny. It makes sense why both of them are so popular, why both have adoration from lots of admirers. But why do you keep subconsciously projecting Tatsuya’s behavior onto Oikawa? Why can’t you have specific conversations with your partner without thinking of the other? Your brain knows they’re not the same person. And just because the brunette _seems_ flirty doesn’t mean he actually _is_. You don’t know his and Minami’s dynamic, you can’t just assume that it’s like yours was, you can’t conclude that your situation happened again to someone else—

 **_“_ ** **Amore mio _, please. You know these things mean nothing—”_**

That seemed to be Tatsuya’s most commonly-used phrase towards the end of your relationship. He would repeat it over and over, hoping you’d believe him—and because you were naïve and _so_ in love, you wanted to trust him, to believe that all of it meant nothing, there’s no reason for concern, (Name)!

But it takes more than surface-level words to override a deep-rooted feeling. No matter how much you tried to convince yourself that it honestly, _truly_ , “meant nothing,” it just never felt right. You could never shake the feelings of insecurity, the worry that _something_ was off. You were never too sure if it was your heart or brain talking. Maybe it was both, maybe it was neither. Regardless, the feelings were strong, consistent, always present—and because of that, you’re still haunted by a figure, a whisper of a memory, something that should have been gone long ago.

You don’t want Oikawa to be like Tatsuya. You want to believe that he’s not the type that would play with girl’s emotions; you don’t want him to be someone who lets the attention go to his head. You can’t really explain why you feel this way. After all, it’s not like what he truly is on the inside is going to affect you in any way in the long run. You’ll be done with this project in a few months’ time; come December, you’ll part ways, both of you moving on to bigger and better things. Oikawa is just a guy who Fate happened to pair you with for the time being—it’s not like anything’s going to come from it.

In the grand scheme of things, Oikawa’s impact on your life is going to be virtually nothing.

So why…

“Why do I care so much, Hachi?” you murmur to your sweet cat, sighing.

A small purr is all you get in response.

* * *

“Minami-san!”

Ogasawara Minami blinks at the unexpected voice and turns to find you, of all people, headed towards her. Dance practice has just ended for the day and the members of the club are packing away their things, slowly filtering out of the studio as they head home. “Ah, (Name)-san,” she responds in kind, tilting her head to the side. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Minami is surprised to see you. She didn’t even know that you were still here—in fact, she didn’t even notice you were at practice today… and now that she thinks about it more, the same applies for the past two weeks. Coach Takai hasn’t been yelling at you recently (he seems to be too focused on figuring out who he wants to choose for the Fall Prefectural—which, hopefully, includes her), so you’ve completely reverted back to a translucent mode: present, but always trying to blend in with the crowd, secretly hidden in the masses. Typical wallflower behavior. Very forgettable.

Minami finds you to be an interesting person. When she first met you, she was surprised to find you so… unassuming—after all, you are related to _the_ (Surname) Umeko. But over the course of high school, the blonde has realized that you prefer to be mostly hidden away from the spotlight, content to be a Village Maid while everyone else vied for the role of Main Princess. It’s too bad, really; Minami had seen you dance throughout junior high at competitions, and although it was clear you were not naturally gifted, the sheer joy and enthusiasm you exuded when you performed made up for the technical flaws tenfold. Your ability to evoke so much emotion—arguably the absolute best quality of your dances—could have most certainly landed you a main role.

It’s a shame that you don’t seem interested in dance anymore, almost as much as it’s a disappointment that you no longer work with Tatsuya. At competitions the two of you were always completely in-sync, and Tatsuya’s ability to lead you was nothing short of excellent—he could have made you seem like the Princess even _if_ you were cast as Village Maid. The bond you shared was strong, and it was obvious that the level of trust and blatant adoration you two had for each other existed even outside the realm of dance. It’s no wonder you were awarded Best Pairs Dance at the Junior High Regional three years ago.

Such a pity that it all abruptly stopped, really. Why, Minami—or anyone—isn’t too sure. There are of course the rumors and speculations, ranging from absolutely ridiculous (there’s the one where you needed to stop dance because you were having your foot amputated—why was this circulated in the first place, and who actually believed it?) to more believable ones (like Tatsuya was moving back to Italy—which, considering he’s still here, also turned out false). Whatever the reason, though, your friendship obviously did not end well, considering how you seem to completely ignore Tatsuya’s existence and she sometimes catches him looking at you with a very pained expression—

Minami doesn’t even realize that she’s lost in an internal monologue until you suddenly say, “I hope this isn’t too personal of me, Minami-san… but I, uh… heard about what happened with Oikawa-san.” You flit your eyes to the floor. “I’m sorry to hear. Are you doing okay?”

The blonde is at first a little taken aback that you know—you and her have always been cordial, but you’re not exactly _friends_ —but then she remembers that you’re Oikawa’s partner, so of course you’re bound to have heard the news. She smiles, feeling warm at the fact that you seem concerned for her wellbeing. “I’m okay, thanks,” she says sincerely, and it’s the truth. “Honestly, it’s been coming for a few weeks.”

Or months, or maybe even from the start the relationship was doomed to fail. You’d think after the first relationship with an obsessed athlete that Minami would have learned her lesson—all they do is eat, sleep, and breathe _SPORTS!_ —but no, of course she hadn’t. It’s too bad that it didn’t work out, though; Oikawa had honestly been nothing but nice, charming, easy-going, friendly… He was exactly who she thought he was. Too bad he just loved volleyball more than anything. _Typical jock,_ she thinks to herself. _Man, I really need a new type_.

Since you’ve talked to Oikawa about it all, that must mean you know how he’s feeling. Minami is the one who broke up with him, but that doesn’t mean she’s stopped completely caring about him as a person. “How is Oikawa-kun?” she asks you. Their breakup conversation wasn’t necessarily bad, but also wasn’t great either…

(“What do you mean I spend too much time with volleyball? We spend plenty of time together—”

“In _text_. How many times did we message back-and-forth about how we’d finally go to that sushi restaurant downtown, but then it kept getting pushed off because you’re too busy, Oikawa-kun? Texting about it wasn’t going to magically make it happen; texting isn’t a relationship!”

“But texting is a _form_ of communication, which you need in a _relationship_ —”

“Texting doesn’t make me have my sushi, does it!”)

“Oh, I’m not really sure,” you say lightly, waving your hand around sheepishly. “It was just brought up in passing. Mentioned volleyball…”

Of course. “Word of advice, (Name)-san: don’t date athletes,” Minami tells you, smiling dryly. “Especially those like Oikawa-kun; as wonderful as they are, the only thing on their mind is the sport. It’s all about the pursuit of success, focused only on improving until they’re the absolute best—”

“But,” you suddenly interrupt, “it’s… admirable, isn’t it? That drive to bloom one’s talent.”

Minami doesn’t understand the small, secretive smile that flits up on your face, nor does she get why your eyes suddenly seem to be a bit distant, as if remembering some past conversation. Understanding nonverbal cues has never really been her thing, so she ignores it, saying instead, “Well, yeah, I guess… but I’d also like a boyfriend I can see more than, you know, once a week?” She shrugs.

 _Really, self, first it was Koseki-kun from the soccer team, then Ikee from Tennis Club, now Oikawa-kun…_ Why _do you always go for this type?!_ _Maybe I should go for someone who’s more academically-inclined… maybe (Name)-san knows someone since she’s more like that—_

“And it wasn’t because of the attention?”

The question is abrupt, insistent, and at first Minami isn’t too sure she heard correctly. “Huh?”

You blink rapidly, looking quite flustered at your sudden outburst. Did you mean to say that? “O-Oh, I’m sorry—just forget I said anything—”

“No,” Minami interrupts you, suddenly curious. “It’s okay; please, go ahead.”

You’re quiet for longer than Minami would have thought, lips pursed in contemplation. Finally, you murmur, “The attention he got from… others.” Your mouth twists down into a small grimace. “That didn’t affect you?”

Hmmm, had it? That’s not really something Minami had thought about. The dancer taps her chin, thinking. “I don’t think anyone really _likes_ when your boyfriend always has a bunch of girls fawning after him,” she hums in contemplation, “but no, I didn’t really have an issue.” After all there were more pressing things… like trying to find time to spend with him. _Stupid volleyball._

Your eyes widen just slightly, another thing Minami doesn’t get—are you surprised?—before they flit down to the floor. “You really weren’t concerned? Like you never felt…” you trail off, voice soft.

The blonde sees where you’re going with this, though she doesn’t know why. “Like did I think something was going to happen?” When you nod, she gives a small laugh. “Oh, gods, no,” she tells you, shaking her head. The thought is comical. “There’s no way. Oikawa-kun is _not_ like that—I mean, don’t you find that he’s exactly the same as what you thought he was going to be? Nice, friendly, easy-going, honestly quite genuine…”

She’s expecting an immediate agreement, but instead Minami is met with absolute silence. When she moves her eyes to you, confused, she sees that you’re looking at her with an expression she honestly can’t describe. The corners of your lips twitch upward, and when the twitch evolves into a full-on smirk, she wonders if she said something that was wrong.

But certainly not, considering she just spoke the truth! Besides, Minami is the one who dated Oikawa, not you; she’s _definitely_ the better judge of character when it comes to him.

(After all, she only dates nice guys. Nice, charming, athletic guys who never have enough time… _Stupid soccer, stupid tennis, stupid volleyball_ —)

“I’m really glad to hear you weren’t concerned, Minami-san,” you tell her, the smirk slowly slipping from your face as your mood sobers up. “Because sometimes things aren’t always as they seem, you know?”

The dancer frowns. You suddenly seem so haunted, wrapped up in your own thoughts. Did something happened to you in the past? As far as she knows, you’ve not dated at all in high school, which she finds sad—you’re a cute, sweet girl, and part of being a teenager is having fun and going on dates! If that’s the case, the blonde hopes that maybe this year you’ll have a bit more luck; as a result, she decides to leave you with some lingering wisdom. “I know what you mean. That’s why you have to follow your gut.”

“…Gut?” you ask, frowning. You look up at her, eyebrows furrowed.

“Yeah—like your hunch, your instinct.” Minami shrugs. Do you not know of gut feeling? “I mean, no one can ever be 100 percent sure about anything, right? But sometimes we _really_ don’t know what’s going on. The brain is giving one signal, the heart is giving another… It’s not fun.”

“No,” you answer with absolute certainty, “it’s not.”

“Right? So that’s when I listen to my gut,” the dancer says, waving her finger about as if giving a lecture. “Deep down, I think in a way you just know when some things are right and some things are wrong. That instinctual feeling… that’s your gut talking. And I don’t think it ever steers you wrong.”

Like with Oikawa. Minami knew going into the relationship that she’d have to deal with the popularity, but she was never concerned about any of it. Maybe that’s just because she’d dealt with boys before who _had_ let the attention get to their heads. The ones who reveled in the adoration and compliments, subconsciously (or maybe consciously, who knows) behaving in ways that made you feel lesser than— _those_ were the ones that you had to be worried about, _those_ were the ones not worth your time, those were the ones who your gut knew to stay away from. Minami had dealt with her fair share of those types in the past. She always knew deep down that Oikawa would never do anything to hurt her—sure, he was friendly and she could see why some people took it as flirtation, but she knew that was just part of who he was.

“It’s all about the gut feeling: an instinct that everyone has from the beginning, but one that can be honed—polished—with experience,” Minami concludes.

Too bad her gut also told her that her and Oikawa wouldn’t work out. Such a shame, really—but the timing wasn’t right from the get-go, and he chose to focus on volleyball instead, so it was time to let go and move on. And that’s okay. Minami hopes that the setter finds someone who he realizes is just as valuable as his beloved sport… or, at the very least, she hopes he finds someone who is patient enough to deal with his one-track mind. 

(They never went to that sushi restaurant, Minami suddenly realizes. Maybe Koga-kun, the devilishly handsome guy who sits next to her in class, would go with her… but no! Wait! He’s the vice-captain of the Swim Team! _No more sports guys, Minami!_ )

“Gut, huh…” you murmur. “I never really thought of that.”

“It’s okay, lots of people don’t,” Minami tells you with a sincere smile. “Many think with their heart, some with the head. It’s easier that way, because then maybe you can rationalize what you’re feeling. It’s scary to trust a hunch, especially since a lot of the times you can’t explain _why_ you feel that way. But if you ask me—”

“—it never steers you wrong, right?” you finish, mimicking her previous words.

“You got it,” the blonde says, winking. “Keep that in mind, and you’ll be good to go.”

You’re quiet for a bit of time, absorbing her words. Even for Minami it’s easy to see when everything sinks in. Suddenly you grin wider than she’s has ever seen, eyes alight. You give her a bow, one much deeper than she thinks is necessary; after all, all she did was give you a small piece of advice—it’s not like she solved any great mystery. “Sorry for all the questions,” you murmur. “I’m glad to hear you’re doing okay.”

“Single and ready to mingle,” she tells you with a grin. “By the way, would you happen to know any smart boys who like sushi?”

“I don’t know any personally; but for sushi lovers, my friend Momo says she always sees Koga-san from Class 4 at that little sushi restaurant downtown whenever she goes. Maybe you could ask him?”

Minami refrains from sighing at the sheer coincidence. “Maybe…”

Your lips quirk upward in a small, amused smile. “Best of luck,” you say as you turn to leave. Just as you are at the door, you turn to look at the blonde once again, giving a brilliant smile. “And thank you, Minami-san.”

Hmm, maybe you needed to hear her piece of advice more than she thought. Minami watches your form disappear around the corner, and she finds herself frowning slightly in contemplation. “Good luck, (Name)-san,” she murmurs to herself. “I hope your gut leads you the right way.”

(But enough about you—she needs to figure out what to do about this sushi situation. Koga-kun, hmm…

Maybe it’s just in the stars that she’ll end up with an athlete.)

* * *

“Something smells good.”

Oikawa looks up from his notes to find you staring at him—or, rather, at the milk bread in his hand. He knows it’s close to dinnertime and he shouldn’t spoil his appetite, but practice has been a bit more demanding now that Mad Dog-chan’s back on the court, and that leaves Oikawa a bit more famished than normal. Today in particular was a bit more annoying—Kyoutani _really_ doesn’t want to cooperate, and trying to figure out how to use him in the most efficient way has proven more challenging than Oikawa originally thought—so the captain decided to treat himself to his favorite food while studying. How lucky that a second year approached him after school to present him with the gift; perfect timing, if he says so himself~

He knows you’re talking about the pastry, but Oikawa can’t help but say, “Glad that my personal hygiene lives up to your standards.”

He refrains from smirking too much when you look at him flatly—you’re fun to tease, and not nearly as violent as Iwa-chan. It’s a win-win situation. “Not _you_ ,” you say, and then nod at the piece of bread. “You get it from that new pastry shop that opened up down the street? I’ve heard good things about their food.”

“Ah, no,” says Oikawa. He hesitates just the slightest before adding, “It was a gift… Some second year made it for me.”

After the words leave his lips, Oikawa immediately focuses on you, watching for your reaction. Although it’s all speculative, he thinks he pieced some things together last week. When you suddenly cut yourself off talking about the “fish in the sea,” the brunette noticed that your eyes had a haunted look about them, like you were off in thought. It was the _exact_ same look you had back when you talked about that “bad experience” with that Tamio guy—or Teppei, or Tatsuzo, or whatever the hell his name is.

(Oh gods, was his name _Tobio_? Gross. No, wait, that’s impossible—if it had truly been his name, Oikawa would have remembered no problem. False alarm!)

And after Oikawa thought about it more later—way more than he should have, if he’s honest—he made the following conclusion about you via deductive reasoning:

  1. Based on your huge blowup in May and the fact you called Oikawa that guy’s name, your brain probably has found some connection between the two. Therefore, to you, Oikawa = Bad Experience-kun. (What an offensive idea—Oikawa is his own person, and most _certainly_ is not like this other guy, thank you very much—but that’s a different battle for another day.)
  2. Talking about anything related to fans and adoration and people fawning—that triggers bad memories for you.



Therefore: You have negative memories of Bad Experience-kun that have to do with fans and adoration and people fawning.

Which means: Bad Experience-kun must have been someone important to you—maybe you were in love?—something happened with attention and other girls—maybe you got jealous, or maybe you had a crush that was unrequited?—and then everything came collapsing down.

Does the reasoning make sense? Maybe not. Is it over-the-top, unnecessary hypothesizing? Absolutely. Oikawa can practically hear Iwa-chan in his mind—“Why do you care so much, and why are you spending your time scheming and speculating, Stupidkawa? Use your time for more important things!”

Why _does_ Oikawa spend so much time thinking about it? Because it’s interesting, and he finds you peculiar. You’re definitely getting a bit easier to read the more he spends time with you, but there are still parts he doesn’t understand, puzzle pieces that don’t line up.

He doesn’t really care about it all, of course. He’s just curious.

So this is a test. If his deduction is correct, your eyes will darken, you will revert back to that quiet state you always get in whenever you’re in thought—and then he will finally be able to fill in that missing piece, the puzzle a little bit more complete than before.

(Oikawa knows it’s cruel of him to test out his hypothesis regarding something you’re possibly sensitive to. He doesn’t want to feel bad—after all, he doesn’t care—he can’t help but feel a little guilty about it.

It’s not like he wants to hurt you, of course. He just… wants to figure it out.)

But you stay completely unfazed by his admission. In fact, you even hold your hand out expectantly. When Oikawa blinks, confused, you frown, gesturing to the bread. “You’re not going to share?” you ask.

Well then, that’s unexpected. As Oikawa hands over the whole pastry to you—maybe not the smartest idea, considering how you dunk the edge into your coffee and proceed to eat a hefty chunk of it—he can’t help but be surprised at your reaction. He was so certain his conclusion was correct. It’s almost a little frustrating, really—he spent all this time thinking about what piece would finally fit, helping him to see the bigger picture, only to find that it doesn’t slot in correctly at all. Now he’s back at square one, back to perusing all the thousand little pieces, thinking about all of the possibilities about why you are the way you are…

Damn. He was so certain he was correct—

Suddenly Oikawa hears the _drip, drip, drip_ of something on paper and a strong coffee scent fills his nose. He looks up to find you looking at him bashfully, the leftovers of his pastry in hand—or rather, now it’s more of a soggy, sad piece of bread dripping everywhere. “Sorry,” you tell him with a sheepish grin, “I accidentally dropped all of it into the coffee. Do you want it back? Promise it’s still good.”

Oikawa looks at you for a long minute before sighing and shaking his head, grin flitting up onto his face. “That’s disgusting,” he tells you, and then when you begin to protest he can’t help but chuckle.

So his deduction was incorrect for today—oh well, it happens. When all is said and done, him being right or wrong about this one thing right now doesn’t really matter. He has plenty of time to figure it out, to figure _you_ out.

What matters is that you seem fine, eyes clear and bright as you try to argue with him about how coffee makes everything taste better. (“Coffee sucks,” he tells you, grinning widely when you act as if he’s just said the most blasphemous thing in the world.)

And although he doesn’t want to, Oikawa can’t deny that deep down he feels a little relieved to see you like this instead of what he hypothesized you would be like.

But only a little bit. Because remember, he doesn’t care.

* * *

**BONUS  
  
**_APRIL, Budget Project Day. After school._  
  
“So I got paired up with some girl named (Full Name),” Oikawa says as he meets up with Minami at the shoe lockers. He sounds flat, very unenthused, and almost irritated, which surprises the blonde. Although they _just_ started dating, Oikawa has been nothing but pleasant, nice, carefree… He was even like that when he got that leg injury a few weeks ago! This is the first time Minami has seen him even remotely negative.

“Oh, (Name)-san?” asks Minami, smiling despite the athlete’s mood. “You got lucky. She’s pretty smart.”

“You actually _know_ her?” asks Oikawa. “I didn’t even know who she was until a few days ago.”

“Yeah—she’s quiet, isn’t she? Quite the wallflower.” Minami shrugs, stuffing her shoe shoes into the cubby. “She’s really nice, though.”

“You sure about that?” asks Oikawa plainly.

Minami blinks, looking at the brunette. He’s staring off at the entrance gates, seemingly lost in thought—about what, she has no idea. She opens her mouth to respond—and to also suggest that they finally go to that sushi shop he’s been promising they’d go to for the past week—when some really tall kid with spiky hair pops his head around the corner and says, “Senpai, practice starts in fifteen minutes.”

Immediately whatever less-than-pleasant mood Oikawa was in evaporates at the mention of _practice_. Without waiting for Minami’s response, the captain begins to hurry off, blowing a kiss and saying “Sorry, gotta go~ Text you later.”

“But… sushi!” she shouts after him, but by the Oikawa is already out of earshot. Minami sighs, running a hand through her hair. Uh oh—is this going to be a Koseki-kun 2.0? Or Ikee 3.5?

“Stupid volleyball,” she mutters. “I really need a new type…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'ALL this chapter - ugh, I had so many difficulties with it. I'm really not happy with this one ~at all~ but it's a necessary chapter because now Oikawa is a single boi (heyo) and Reader-chan's brain FINALLY catches a clue. The final nail that Oikawa is not Tatsuya (aka Bad Experience-kun) has been put in the coffin. It's a gut feeling~
> 
> (Or that's what I was going for. Did it come across? Lol idk sorry~~ I re-read it last night and it seemed okay, but then again it was 1:30 AM whoops, you know how your brain perceives things differently when you're tired.)
> 
> Also I should mention that I've made Seijoh's location in this fic closer to Sendai than in the countryside - like near Sendai Castle (aka Aoba Castle). Thought it made sense. It's not super important to know, but thought it might help those who like to visualize. :D
> 
> Thanks for reading~ Let's hope Minami finally gets her sushi!


	8. Lucky Cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"The only sure thing about luck is that it will change."_ – Wilson Mizner

After two days of long, grueling final exams, Summer Break hits with an uncomfortable heatwave and very little time to rest.

On Saturday you take the day to catch up on much-needed sleep, to watch the newest episode of your and Umeko’s American drama, and to use your brain as little as possible. On Sunday you take a very teary Momo to the train station as she prepares to head up to Hokkaido for her Photo Koshien competition. You try to assure her that everything will be okay (“Momo-chan,” you tell her as she sniffles into your shirt when you give her a farewell hug, “no one’s dying…”), but she seems unable to be placated (“I’m just really stressed, is all!”), so your goodbyes are a bit awkward and full of unease.

Before she boards the train, your friend reaches into her purse and pulls out a tiny lucky cat figurine, which she practically shoves at you. “This is for your dance camp because I know you’ll need it okay good luck I need to go now or else I’m gonna cry some more I promise I’m just really stressed okay see you in a week and a bit OKAY BYE—"

She’s gone before you can even thank her. And as thoughtful as the gesture is, you can’t help but think that maybe Momo should have kept it for herself, considering how distressed she seems. But Momo is an amazing photographer and she will be just fine; no luck is needed. You send her a thank-you text and pocket the figurine, figuring that it can’t hurt to have a bit of luck on your side.

Early on Monday you’re whisked an hour away to the city of Kurihara to attend your first—and last—high school dance camp. Kurihara is a tad bit cooler than Sendai, but the air is still sticky and gross despite it only being morning. The humidity clings to your skin like a second pair of clothes. The facilities the Club is staying at provide little relief, either, as there is no air conditioning; same goes for the high school gym you’ll be working at, though having all the doors open does allow for the occasional breeze to go through.

The first meeting an hour after you arrive consists of ice breakers with the two other dance teams from nearby schools, as well as a general breakdown of how each day will be laid out: the morning will be spent honing the skills and techniques of a specific dance style, and the afternoon will be dedicated to a workshop. Takai, who is explaining all of this, doesn’t provide any details regarding the latter; when an energetic, redheaded third year from one of the other schools asks if he can clarify further, your lovely coach merely frowns and says, “Nope.”

(That same third year also comes along when a small group of you take a short trip to Lake Izunuma during lunch. “Your coach seems kind of… prickly,” she says.

While your partner Haruto snorts, murmuring to you, “That’s a good adjective to describe him,” Takamaki-san, Tatsuya’s current partner, merely gives the girl a smile. “He has a hard exterior, but he’s not really like that,” she states. “He can come across as grumpy or peevish because he cares so much.”

“That means he must _really_ cares about you, (Name),” Haruto tells you with a roll of his eyes.

You give him a dry grin as you pull out your phone to snap some pictures of the blooming lotus floating lazily on the lake. “Lucky me,” you say.)

And in the afternoon, after Takai yells at you “(Surname), pick up the energy! My grandma can run faster than you!” during your warmup run, followed by “(Surname), this is _jazz_ —use _precise_ movements; you’re not floating in a swimming pool! Stop looking so… _gummy_!” when the whole camp begins to work on jazz techniques, you can’t help but think, _Ah, yes—how_ lucky _I am._

This sentiment continues as the sweltering humidity makes it borderline impossible to fall asleep later that night. You toss and turn for hours, almost kicking poor Minami a few times (who is somehow sleeping peacefully beside you, seemingly unaffected by the weather— _how_?). When you finally are just about to drift away into slumber, something lands on your arm and begins to move; and after opening your eyes to investigate, you realize in horror that a cockroach has found its way through the open window.

Yes, you scream loudly, which wakes everyone up in a panic; yes, almost everyone else begins to yell as the bug starts to fly around the room; yes, you cry a little; yes, once the roach is taken care of by your chaperone, no one sleeps well; and yes, you feel responsible for everyone’s misery.

You’re so lucky.

* * *

  
On Wednesday morning, you’re shocked to see a very familiar face standing with the coaches when you walk into the gymnasium after breakfast. Umeko cradles a cup of coffee in her hands—typical for the members of the (Surname) clan—and watches with a grin as everyone filters through the doors, smile growing wider as excited chatter reverberates through the campers:

“Oh my gosh, isn’t that (Surname) Umeko? It totally is!”

“I saw her in Taiwan when the Chrysanthemum Suns were on tour—she’s amazing! Such a shame they disbanded…”

“Why is she here in Kurihara, though? Of all places?”

“I mean, she _is_ a Seijoh alum…”

“Plus, wait—(Surname)… Isn’t there a (Surname) here?”

“Oh, the girl that Coach Takai keeps yelling at? Now that I think about it, they do look very similar… Maybe there’s a familial tie there?”

“There has to be: same last name, same high school, same looks…”

“Hmm… Not to sound mean, but… I… I guess talent isn’t genetic… Oh gods, did I say that too loud? Do you think she heard me?”

(You did hear, though you try to keep your face as neutral as possible. You can feel your cheeks burning at the comment—it never gets easier, no matter how often you hear it.)

Lucky you.

Although Coach Takai never looks particularly amused or satisfied—or maybe that’s just your opinion, who knows—he looks especially irritated today. Based on how his ire evolves the more the chatter grows (as well as the widening of Umeko’s smug grin), you have a sneaking suspicion it’s because of all the positive commentary about your sister. Umeko catches your eye and gives a wink and a thumbs up, as if you’re in on some secret plan of hers. But you’re just as surprised as everyone else to see her here.

Takai waves his hand about once everyone has filed in, presence demanding silence. “As you’re all aware by now, we have a new face amongst us,” he says, frowning as he does. You can tell he’s trying to sound neutral, but his tone is bland and dry, completely uninspired. He sweeps a hand in your sister’s direction. “(Surname) Umeko… _-san_ … is _kind_ enough to join us for the rest of the week as a guest coach. Such a shame that she couldn’t be here from the beginning, but remedial exams are very important when you fail all—”

“ _Thanks_ so much for the _nice_ introduction, _Shigeru_ ,” interrupts your sister, reaching over to slap Takai’s shoulder firmly—very firmly. She addresses the crowd, easy smile on her face. “Happy to be here, everyone! If you don’t know who I am, hi—I’m (Surname) Umeko. I was part of the dance group known as the Chrysanthemum Suns, and for the past three years I’ve been the reigning champion in Solo Dance at the Intercollegiate Nationals. Funnily enough, Coach Takai- _san_ has also been competing at that _same_ competition, but can’t seem to beat—”

“In addition to offering her _amazing, genius, top-notch_ coaching skills”—can that sound any more sarcastic?—“Umeko- _san_ will be leading this afternoon’s workshop,” punctuates Takai, giving possibly the fakest smile you’ve ever seen. “Please treat her kindly.”

Takai then turns to one of the other coaches, requesting that they start the conditioning as he “needs to step outside for a quick moment,” and then leaves through the gym doors quite speedily. You catch Umeko’s triumphant, immature smirk as you’re herded outside for your morning run and refrain from rolling her eyes.

(Takai, it turns out, has found himself a nice, mostly hidden corner where he can smoke a cigarette… or two… or three. You only happen to see him because you let your eyes wander as you run, desperately trying to take your mind off of the misery that is jogging. He sees you looking, much to your horror.

When he comes in about fifteen minutes later, he walks up to you with narrowed eyes. You’re expecting some sort of lecture, but all he says to you is “Smoking is a very bad habit. Don’t do it. I just needed one because your sister is an Umeboshi.” You don’t blame him, if you’re honest.)

In the afternoon Umeko leads her workshop on lyric interpretation. She splits everyone up into teams of five and goes around to speak with each group individually to assign songs. Your group—you, Haruto, the spunky, redheaded third year from Monday, and a set of twins—is more towards the end of Umeko’s line of trajectory, so you get to watch everyone’s responses to their songs. It seems to be a mixed bag. Some groups, like Minami’s, seem rather enthused with the tune they received; others, like Tatsuya’s, seem a little confounded, heads tilted in confusion as they look at their lyric sheet. You’re not really sure what to make of it, and you hope that whatever Umeko has chosen for you—as it seems her pick for group members as well as the song choice for each is deliberate—turns out to be relatively straightforward and easy.

But of course, this is your sister you’re talking about.

Umeko gives you a sugary sweet smile as she sidles up, which automatically raises your suspicions. “Aha, my favorite group!” she says, which causes the redhead to swoon a bit. Your sister rifles through her pages of lyrics. “Let’s see… I’m looking for Sister Group… Sister Group…”

“Did you really name all of the teams?” you ask her dryly.

“Nope, just yours since you’re special,” Umeko responds easily. Another red flag. “Sister Gr—ah, here we go!” She hands the paper to Haruto. “Enjoy~”

Haruto takes one look at the sheet before making a weird sound, which is followed by “What the fuck.”

You look over at your sister warily, noting her devilish look, before peeking over your partner’s shoulder. Immediately you see a language you don’t recognize at all—it’s definitely not Japanese, nor is it English. It looks to be the Roman alphabet, but there are a bunch of dots over some of the letters…

While your teammates discuss amongst themselves—“Is that English?” one twin asks, and the other responds, “No way. Maybe like Russian or something?” which the redhead follows up with, “No, Russian uses like a different alphabet, it’s called Cyprus or Cyrene or something… Can you look up the song on your phone?”—you turn back to your sister. “Um?” you ask.

“Here’s the translation,” she says, handing Haruto a separate sheet. He still looks rather perturbed, though luckily you see Japanese characters on the new piece of paper.

“What is this?” you ask her, narrowing your eyes.

“Finnish,” she tells you simply.

“Why?”

“Well I mean you’re good at language, so thought that you could use the challenge. Plus you should really be able to interpret lyrics in _any_ language—see, I even helped you all out with the translation! I’m so generous. ‘Thank you, _oneesama_ ’!”

“Good at language—just English—not— _not_ Finnish!” you stutter, bewildered. “Umeko-oneesan, what—”

The song starts to softly play from your teammate’s phone, cutting you off. You only have to listen to it for three seconds before you immediately recognize the tune. For the past two weeks Umeko had been playing it from her laptop while she was in the living room studying for exams—or she was _supposed_ to be studying, but would always fall into a fit of giggles anytime she pulled up the song. She would only do it when you were around, too, which confused you; when you asked her about it, she would merely shake her head and say, “Later.” 

(Oikawa even asked about it one time. “Is your sister okay?” he questioned. “Why does she keep playing the Leek Spin song?”

“Is that what it’s called?” you asked.

“Well I don’t know the actual name, but it’s from that video with that anime character spinning the leek around. You haven’t seen it?”

“Nope,” you told him, shrugging. “Why she keeps playing it, I dunno. She’s studying for exams. Maybe her brain broke?”)

  
Now you understand. And yes, her brain is indeed broken.

“Please don’t tell me you did this,” you say, sighing. “Please don’t tell me you gave us an _Internet meme_ to use as our song.”

“Do your best!” she tells you, walking off. There’s a bounce in her step that wasn’t there before.

“Lucky us, huh?” grunts Haruto. He looks both amused and annoyed—amused because your sister decided to be a troll, and annoyed because he just happened to be in the group that was _being_ trolled.

“Yeah, lucky us,” you respond with another sigh.

* * *

As the days go on, you’re still unsure why Takai chose Kurihara of all places to have a dance camp. Sure, it’s a nice, scenic town and sure, it’s refreshing to be out of the cityscape… but there’s not much going on, especially regarding dance. The two other dance clubs are filled with _very_ lovely people—you’ve even exchanged contact information with a few—but their teams have a very relaxed atmosphere about them. It seems they are more interested in having fun rather than competing, which is completely fine—but since Takai wants to get Seijoh back to where it was, why not stay in Sendai where there are more ambitious groups? You’re sure Shiratorizawa’s club wouldn’t have minded collaborating… maybe even Date Tech’s would have been open to the idea…

On Friday morning, you get your answer.

There’s another figure standing with the coaches when you walk into the gymnasium. This time it’s a very squat man wearing a full, black tracksuit despite the sweltering heat. He only has a few wisps of white hair on his head; but oddly enough, he also has the darkest, thickest eyebrows you’ve ever seen on an old person. He’s chatting with Umeko and Takai, both of whom look absolutely over-the-moon at his presence. You don’t know what’s the most shocking thing—the man’s choice of wardrobe; his eyebrows; or the fact that your coach and sister are able to hold a civil conversation, albeit with a third party involved.

“He looks familiar,” Haruto says to you, frowning. “It’s like I _know_ I’ve seen him before, but can’t place where…”

You nod, agreeing. You notice that a few members of your club are chattering excitedly amongst one another, even more so than when Umeko first showed up. Tatsuya in particular looks almost as ecstatic as the pair talking to the old man. It’s been a while since you’ve seen him so excited about something… but then again, you try not to pay too much attention to him, especially with the events of this past semester. The last time he seemed this eager was back in middle school, when he was talking to you about which school he wanted to attend—

_“Aoba Johsai’s dance club specializes in pairs, you know; absolutely perfect for us! Did you know it used to be the best team in Miyagi? I know things have not been great for them recently, but there are rumors that talks have been in the works about getting Coach Teramura back—”_

Recognition lights up in you like a flame. “That’s Coach Teramura,” you breathe, blinking in surprise.

“ _Really_?” Haruto asks you, a bit taken aback. He squints towards the front. “Man, he looks different. I thought he died, he was already crusty back in Ye Golden Days of Seijoh Dance Club—”

“Not died,” you interrupt. “He retired. To Kurihara.”

 _Now_ it makes sense.

Coach Teramura, former Seijoh coach and Dance Legend Extraordinaire. When was the last time you saw him? Elementary school? You have to agree with Haruto—he’s changed quite a bit, but you suppose that’s natural with time. He’s shrunk… or maybe that’s just because you’ve grown. The eyebrows and stern look are the exact same, though. You wonder if the personality has shifted with age, too. You never interacted with him personally, but you remember _many_ a time where Umeko would come home with tears in her eyes. She’d always brush it off, however, merely saying that she just needed to get better, he was being harsh because he cared.

(Sounds familiar. Lucky you!)

Teramura is standing ramrod straight, observing everyone as they enter through the doors. He’s incredibly short—only coming up to Umeko’s shoulders—but despite his stature, he has a huge presence, one that demands attention. You happen to catch his gaze as you pass by; when your eyes meet, you feel a chill shoot down your spine. You’re suddenly filled with a sense of unease. You can’t pinpoint why, but it doesn’t go away even after he’s broken eye contact.

Like Wednesday, Coach Takai waves his hand about to catch everyone’s attention. Unlike with Umeko, however, he introduces Teramura with absolute sincerity, words practically bouncing. Takai begins to list all of Teramura’s achievements—most are incredibly impressive, but the young coach also adds a few in that are probably unnecessary to include… especially because this introduction is taking forever to complete.

Haruto leans toward you, whispering out of the corner of his mouth. “Do you think we really needed to know that the mayor of Sendai once labeled Teramura ‘The Spirit of Miyagi’? What does that even mean, anyway…?”

You smirk, whispering back, “Don’t you know? He’s Kami-sama.”

Teramura eventually snaps at Takai to get on with it. Takai flushes a deep crimson—you see Umeko grin at that—before sputtering his apologies and explaining today’s activities. As a special finale to a very long, “very successful” camp ( _Was it?_ you wonder, considering how much you were yelled at), your coach has invited Teramura to be the final guest. The old man agreed but had afternoon activities, so the workshop would be held in the morning instead. Afternoon dance activities would be cancelled; in lieu, all the coaches would be treating the campers to a nice meal of yakiniku.

You’re so focused on the latter bit of information that you almost miss a vital piece of information. Teramura’s workshop will focus on improvisation—one of your least favorite things to do since losing your will to dance—and he will be randomly choosing people to participate. You find yourself hunching lower just a little bit, hoping you won’t be called on.

But Teramura doesn’t pick contestants from the crowd. Instead, Takai gives him a roster of all of your names. That sense of unease comes back as you watch the old man’s eyes scan the list carefully, taking his time to look at each and every name—

“(Full Name),” you hear Teramura say, and your heart drops into your stomach.

Lucky you. But there’s no way this was luck—this _had_ to be intentional.

You stand, trying in vain to calm that feeling of dread. Your heart is pounding so loud you wouldn’t be surprised if it was audible. You can feel everyone’s eyes on you, watching—most are curious, some are jealous, and the seldom, knowledgeable few, like your sister, are concerned. You train your eyes on the ground by the old coach’s feet, hands twisting the hem of your shirt.

Teramura sweeps his eyes over you once before looking to Umeko. “I’m assuming the same surname and physical resemblance is not just coincidence?” he asks.

“No, sir,” answers Umeko. “This is my baby sister.”

Those in the crowd who hadn’t realized the connection now murmur amongst one another— _Yes, I know it’s so surprising someone like_ me _is related to someone like_ her _,_ you think, hating how pathetic and pitiful the sentiment sounds even in your head.

Teramura, meanwhile, hums in approval. He turns back to you, saying, “Umeko is an extraordinary dancer.” You see your sister’s face light up in satisfaction, but it falls immediately at his next words. “I am curious to see how the younger (Surname) fares.” He waves his hand at you, ushering you forward. “Come along now.”

The tension is suddenly palpable, thick and heavy like the godforsaken humidity. Everyone in the Seijoh Dance Club has heard the stories about Teramura, about how strict, harsh, and unforgiving he was with his students. Takai himself has even spoken about it. (“If you think _I’m_ bad,” he’s said a few times, “you should have met Coach Teramura. It’s like comparing a ripple to a tsunami.”)

You don’t know if it’s entirely true. But if it is, you’re going to be torn apart.

Those who know your plight tense up; even _Takai_ seems a bit concerned. Your coach murmurs the old man’s name and leans to whisper into his ear. You feel your ears burn in embarrassment—you can only imagine what the younger male is saying.

Although Takai has the decency to be relatively discreet, Teramura sure doesn’t. “I don’t care if she’s _lacking_ , as you say,” he says, loud enough that everyone can hear. The heat from your ears travels down to your cheeks, your neck—your whole body feels warm. “I still want to see her dance. If she’s a weak dancer, then pair her with your strongest. Who’s that?”

Oh no.

No no no no—

Takai’s gaze flits behind you. You know who he’s looking at without even having to turn around. “That would be Tatsuya,” the coach says, none the wiser to how your insides curl up into a tight ball.

There’s some shuffling as Tatsuya stands. You continue to look straight ahead, though you can feel your former partner’s eyes boring into your back. Unsurprisingly, people from all the dance clubs begin to chatter excitedly; even though you’ve only been at camp for a few short days, Tatsuya has risen to popularity, garnering a reputation as the attractive, friendly, talented Seijoh student with the hard-to-pronounce last name.

(All true things, which of course is why—

 ** _“I promise you,_ tesoro mio _—my treasure_ —”**)

_Nope. Not doing this again._

You feel a tug on your leggings, and you look down. It’s Haruto—your partner, your best friend in dance, and the only person in Club whom you disclosed the whole truth regarding Tatsuya to. “Ask Teramura to swap Tatsuya with me,” he murmurs lowly. The look in his eye is grim. The offer makes your heart swell and you give him a wobbly smile. Haruto _never_ volunteers for anything—

But another person steps in. “Ah, Coach,” Umeko says, “I hope you don’t mind me speaking up… but I’m not sure this is the best pairing…” Her words are saturated with formalities, which is uncharacteristic for your elder sister.

Teramura turns his laser-like gaze on her, eyes steely and unamused. “You have a problem with my decisions, too?”

“N-Not at all, sir!” Umeko, _stuttering_? “I just thought… well, maybe it’d be best to, um, have the students pair with those that they work with… on a regular bas—”

“Nonsense,” the old coach cuts her off, and your sister shrinks a bit. “Absolute garbage. This is an _improvisation_ exercise! All dancers must keep an open mind and need to learn to be flexible with whom they work—or have you forgotten that?”

(Takai smirks broadly at the fact that Umeko is getting scolded, but the mirth is short-lived when Teramura says, “You have no right to be smirking, Shigeru—don’t think how I’ve forgotten how you two embarrassed me at that Spring Prefectural. Gods, what was I thinking… putting two immature boneheads together. My biggest regret is ever _hoping_ you’d learn to be adults and work together—I was such a fool.”)

“Now,” Teramura says after he’s finished ripping into Takai’s ego, “care to tell me _why_ this pairing isn’t a good idea?”

Umeko’s hesitation is very clear. After such a dramatic exchange, everyone is waiting for her answer; all eyes on her as she racks her brain for a reasonable excuse. You have a feeling that even the truth wouldn’t suffice for Teramura, so before Umeko can say anything, you call, “ _Oneesan_ ,” and shake your head softly.

She hears your silent plea, eyes flitting to yours. You hate the look in her eyes, but you understand—she’s only trying to help. Her lips turn downward, gaze hardening when she flicks her attention behind to Tatsuya. But she relents, bowing slightly to her coach with an apology, and backs away.

Your chest feels heavy as you make your way up to the front. You stare at the ground until a pair of feet come into your line of sight. When you look up, you are instantly met with a pair of honey brown eyes. And time seems to stop.

Tatsuya has always been a cute boy, something you would tell him all the time. When you were younger he’d always sputter and brush you off, brown orbs light with embarrassment; but as you both matured, he began to take you seriously, eyes always crinkling with joy as he murmured his thanks. Eventually he admitted that he thought you were absolutely stunning, too—both on the inside and out—that he was desperately in love with you, and that he wanted nothing more than to be with you. You remember how bright his gaze was when you said you felt the same, as you had for a long time.

That was your favorite feature about him—his eyes. They were always warm, inviting. They still are. You feel yourself getting sucked back into that world, one that should have ended a long time ago.

“(Name)… Hi,” Tatsuya breathes, voice reverent. You’ve always liked how he’s said your name, how it rolls off his tongue, how the syllables bounce with his slight accent.

“Hi,” you say back. It’s been two years since you’ve spoken, but it only feels like it’s been a few days. You are pulled in deeper.

Teramura is talking, though he sounds distant, as if he’s speaking underwater. It’s all stuff you know, though—as always, Tatsuya will be leading, so it’s your job to be the Follow, to let him guide you, to follow his subtle cues. You know. It’s always been like this. It will always be like this.

Somewhere music begins to play, a slow, solemn minor that ebbs and flows, much like gentle undulations of waves on a beach. Tatsuya reaches out a hand, inviting you to join him. His eyes are steady, filled with a low-burning fire. You place your palm in his, hands fitting together perfectly. The moment his fingers curl around yours, you find yourself completely tumbling down the rabbit hole, returning back to that familiar world you spent so long in.

Tatsuya leads you effortlessly, keeping you close as he maneuvers you into a slow, intimate waltz-like step. The music begins to agitate and he loosens his grip on you, allowing you to spin in his grasp as the song swirls and twirls with a complex whirlwind of melodic patterns. The minor tune gradually shifts to a happy major, and your partner picks up the pace, encouraging quick and light footwork that makes you feel like you’re floating on air. His face lights up when he lifts you in the air, strong hands anchored securely around your waist, telling you to trust him, he won’t let you fall, you can believe him…

And you do. All of this feels so comfortable and familiar, why did it ever stop? Why did you ever leave, you two go so well together, it’s always been (Name) and Tatsuya, Tatsuya and (Name), a pair that can’t be separated…

You don’t know how much time passes before the music begins to slow. Tatsuya is holding you close—so, _so_ close—and continues to hold you, never breaking eye contact, until the music finally fades into nothingness.

And that’s when the spell is broken.

It all comes rushing back to you, cold, harsh reality overtaking whatever warm, sentimental feelings still linger. You remember where you are, who you are, and why—how—everything came crashing down in the first place. Tatsuya notices the shift instantly. His gaze is solemn and regretful as he pulls away, giving you space.

You feel hollow.

There’s a brief moment of silence before the gym erupts in applause, the clapping loud and enthusiastic. You hear some girls squealing and saying Tatsuya’s name, yelling about how cool and suave and amazing he is. No one seems to be very interested in your role—but why would they? You’re just the quiet Follow, moving effortlessly and fluidly because you have such a talented Lead…

You look over to the coaches. Umeko is applauding lightly, blatant concern in her eyes. Takai is also clapping and looking at you with a very intense gaze. You’re not entirely sure what he’s thinking, but you know for a fact that he wasn’t expecting what just occurred—not surprising, though, considering how you’ve been performing for the past few months.

Teramura, meanwhile, is clapping enthusiastically. He’s even _smiling_. “‘Not a strong dancer’—‘Not a good pairing’— _please_ , you two need to open your eyes more,” he tells Takai and Umeko. “That was fantastic. Do you know how rare it is to get two people to mesh _that_ well immediately?"

 _There's a reason for it_ , you think bitterly, but you merely bow to Teramura and make your way back to your spot. Haruto gives you a small squeeze when you plop down beside him, lips pulled back. You smile at him reassuringly, though it doesn’t meet your eyes.

You barely register the rest of the morning, replaying the whole scene in your head over and over and over as the workshop continues.

* * *

When the camp is officially ended and everyone rushes off to yakiniku, you decide that you need to be alone. You excuse yourself from the crowd, lying to your chaperone that you’re feeling quite tired and want to lay down. You meander to the girls’ sleeping quarters, shutting the door behind you with a loud sigh, and go to lay down on your futon.

You immediately pull out your phone and try to call Momo, but as you’re brought to voicemail you remember that today’s the last day of the Photo Koshien—of course she’s not going to be available. You lay it down beside you and curl up on the mattress, closing your eyes tightly. Your thoughts and feelings are jumbled, mixing together into a giant mess. There’s an ache in your chest that only comes when you’re feeling vulnerable, when you’re thinking too much about the past. Of course this happened to you, so much for luck, stupid cat figurine—

Your phone buzzes. You crack an eye open, hoping that it’s Momo, but no—it’s just an Instagram notification. You sigh and close your eyes again. You’ll get to it later, once you’re feeling better.

But then your phone buzzes again—and again, and again, and continues to do so nonstop. You reach for the device, confused. Your notifications show that someone with the name **oito.san720** has followed you and is liking your pictures at rapid speed, borderline haphazardly. You sit up, eyebrows furrowing. “Who the hell…?” You click open the app and immediately roll your eyes.

Of course it’s him. You don’t know anyone else _but_ Oikawa who would spam your phone like this.

You try to keep up with the incoming notifications while also seeing what he’s done so far. Oikawa has liked at _least_ fifteen of your photos, some of which were uploaded over a year ago. He’s also commented on a few:

On your most recent photo, which is a picture of you and your family visiting the USA when you were eight, he’s written, “JEALOUS! Also nice hair lol.”

(Like quite a few girls at that age, you had taken scissors to your hair. In this particular picture, you’re sporting a rather unflattering bowl cut. You were hiding behind your dad so you were hoping no one would notice, but obviously your plan didn’t go as predicted.)

He also comments on a selfie taken a few months back. You’re looking off into the distance as if it’s not completely obvious that _you’re_ the one taking the photo. “So pensive hahahaha,” Oikawa writes.

(You quickly delete that picture. Why in the world had you thought it looked good to begin with?)

The last comment you see is just a bunch of star emojis on a photo that Momo had taken of you last year. You’re smiling widely because you have a huge cup of coffee in your hands.

(You don’t mind this comment as much.)

You quickly open up a private message to the athlete, fingers tapping rapidly.

 **  
You:** are you stalking me  
**oito.san720:** it’s called light perusing  
**oito.san720:** also your username???

You look at yours—(name)7788. Is there something wrong with it, you wonder? You decide to ask him.

 **oito.san720:** 7788? That number symbolize anything?  
**You:** nana (7) and hachi (8)  
**oito.san720:** unoriginal

You roll your eyes but can’t help the smirk that flits up on your face.

 **You:** like yours is any better. Oito.san720? wtf  
**oito.san720:** OIkawa TOoru, duhhh  
**oito.san720:** And 720—July 20. My bday ☆

Oh. You pull up a calendar, looking for the date. You didn’t realize his birthday was on the last day of exams. He didn’t mention it to you when you briefly chatted after school, either—uncharacteristic, you think, but who knows with the brunette.

 **You:** happy belated birthday  
**oito.san720:** thanks~ for a birthday gift you can follow me back~  
  
You ignore his quip entirely.

 **You:** aren’t you supposed to be at volleyball camp or whatev  
**oito.san720:** we have breaks, you know. Aren’t YOU supposed to be dance camp?  
**You:** we have breaks too, you know  
**oito.san720:** Touché (Name)-chan, touché  
**oito.san720:** okay, question for you  
**You:** shoot  
**oito.san720:** what life choices led you to have hair like in your last picture?

Of _course_ he’s bringing up the hair.

 **You:** ok listen  
**You:** it’s not THAT bad  
**oito.san720:** it’s not great  
**oito.san720:** it’s fasd faeak;;

 **You:** ????  
**oito.san720:** Iwachan hit me! He’s reading over my shoulder. Iwachan if you’re reading this you really should stop being so violent it’s not a good lod/fdafjwaeajfllpafke  
**oito.san720:** Sorry (surname), oikawa is being shittykawa again  
**oito.san720:** just call him out next time

You pause for a moment, smirking widely at the antics. You’re about to type a response when Iwaizumi—or Oikawa, as you’re not entirely sure who has control of the phone now—types:

 **oito.san720:** break’s over, gtg. Bye (name)-chan~

That’s definitely Oikawa. You send over a quick goodbye as well as “say hi to the others for me,” but there’s no response. You take a brief moment to reread the conversation, laughing to yourself quietly. It’s only when you pull your phone away that you notice there’s another figure in the room with you.

“You know,” your sister says from her spot on the wall, humming lightly, “I came to check up on you because I was quite concerned… but you seem fine now.”

You blink and then quickly evaluate your mood. You’re surprised to find that the ache in your chest has dulled significantly. Your thoughts are no longer jumbled and confused, and you almost feel… lighter… in a way.

“Huh,” you say.

“Something funny happen?” Umeko asks you, nodding to your phone.

“No, not really,” you state. “Just needed a moment to myself. I’m okay now.” And you realize that you mean it.

Umeko hums again, eyes sharp. She sends you a smile before pulling herself upright. “Glad to hear,” she says. “C’mon, let’s go grab some noodles—just the two of us, my treat. I don’t want yakiniku because I don’t want to deal with Ass-kai anymore. _Man_ , it feels so good to be unfiltered! It’s been _such_ a challenge, you know—”

Umeko begins to walk out the door, talking mostly to herself. You stand up to follow. You’re almost to the exit when you pause, remembering, and quickly run back to your phone. You open up the Instagram app and, with a small smile, tap the “Follow” button on Oikawa’s account.

How lucky that you happened to talk to him.

This time, you’re actually being sincere.

* * *

**  
BONUS**

“Momo-chan, _where_ exactly did you get that lucky cat from? A cursed shrine?” you ask her over the phone. “Demand a refund—it brought nothing but bad luck!”

“I’m sorry, (Name)-chan!” she wails. “Maybe it was infused with my nervous and chaotic energy…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Companion Song: "Release Me" by Hooverphonic
> 
> \---
> 
> Disclaimer: I am not a dancer, never have been, so there's a very real chance that I will get dance-related stuff wrong even though I've tried to do some research. Sorry!!
> 
> I quite enjoyed writing this chapter! It kind of wrote itself, in a way. :) Not too much Oikawa, but it's a v necessary Reader-centric chapter. He does show up at the very end there, though!!
> 
> If you somehow do NOT know the Leek Spin song, you can hear it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1wnE4vF9CQ4). The real title of the song is "Ievan Polkka," a popular Finnish song written in the 1930s.
> 
> btw, I have almost completed what I call my "detailed timeline" for this story. we're looking at roughly 37 chapters here, people! I will edit the ao3 chapter amount when I have officially finished the timeline. It is subject to change, because my brain likes to make things longer than necessary whoopsie.
> 
> Hope everyone is staying happy and healthy during these times!


	9. Grit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Permanence, perseverance, and persistence in spite of all obstacles, discouragement, and impossibilities: It is this, that in all things distinguishes the strong soul from the weak."_ \- Thomas Carlyle

Two days after you come back from Dance Camp, you once again hit the road (or, rather, you suppose, this time it’s the bullet train) with a very restless Momo to begin “Momo and (Name)’s Annual Summer Vacation Extravaganza.”

The beginning of the trip starts off somewhat rocky—at the very start Momo complains of mild nausea (which goes away after she inhales one of your protein bars; turns out she forgot to eat breakfast due to waiting last minute to pack), and you also get a bit upset when you realize you’ve forgotten one of the textbooks needed for summer homework (“ _Please_ , (Name)-chan, as if we’re going to do _homework_ on this trip,” Momo tells you, which you realize is true; why you thought otherwise, who knows)—but eventually everything quickly settles, and you begin to feel a bit eager, if not a tad anticipatory. With the stress of finals and Dance Camp, you hadn’t really gotten much time to think about your big Tokyo trip. Now, mere hours from your destination, it hits you that you’re on a train, headed to the nation’s bustling capital—and potentially your future home for the next four years—with your best friend on your first trip without your family.

It’s quite exciting. You’re not exactly the most adventurous person there is, however, so as Momo pours over the list of activities she wants to do—two pages full of ideas, ranging from the standard touristy things to the slightly odd, such as the Kawaii Monster Café (???)—you can’t help but also feel a smidge overwhelmed as well.

(Or maybe that’s just because you haven’t gotten much time to rest, and you’re already a quarter of the way through your summer break. Are you just perpetually tired? Do you secretly have a Grandma Spirit?)

Momo, on the other hand, seems to be nothing but chipper and excited. She keeps adding even _more_ activities to her list—“You have literally three weeks’ worth of things written down, and we have five days,” you remind her, to which her response is, “Shhh, let me dream!”—and once she finally runs out of data from browsing the Internet for things to do, the two of you spend the rest of the train ride filling each other in on the details of last week’s events. Or, rather, it’s mostly Momo doing the talking. She _does_ ask you about Dance Camp, but considering she won the Photo Koshien—something that’s both unsurprising but incredibly exciting to you—she’s a bit preoccupied talking about her experience and fiddling around with her new camera, which apparently was one of the prizes.

(“Oooh, I can’t tell if you’re overwhelmed or just really tired,” Momo says, showing you the pictures she just took. She’s using you as a makeshift model as she plays around with the camera’s settings; despite the fact she’s taken eight different photos, each with different settings, you don’t look good in _any_ of them.

You quickly reach for your bag, fishing around to find your tinted lip balm—“A red lip _always_ makes you look more alive!” your grandmother would always tell you, and although you don’t wear lipstick you _do_ find yourself always buying the tinted chapsticks over the normal ones—and as you’re applying it, you ask, “Can you please take a photo that doesn’t make me look dead?”

“I mean I’m sure I could play around more with the ISO or aperture,” she says, as if you have a clue what she’s talking about, “but it’s not going to take away the core emotion of the photograph. _That’s_ something you can’t edit.”

“Tired isn’t an emotion…”

“Might as well be with you.”

“…Huh?”

“Pay no mind~”)

  
Momo’s cousin Rie meets you at the train station to take you to her apartment, a tiny, two-bedroom flat in the Asakusa distract. Your and Momo’s accommodation is more of a storage space that has been transformed into a makeshift room—among the many things are piles and piles of law books everywhere, a portable rack filled with winter clothes, and a guitar with only three strings. Momo accidentally knocks over a stack of books and Rie flushes, apologizing for the cramped quarters; but both you and your friend assure her that it’s not a problem whatsoever, thank you very much for letting us stay with you, is it possible to move some of the books out to the hallway so they don’t fall on us while we sleep?

(A stray book still ends up somehow clocking you in the side later that night, though—first that cockroach last week, now _Extended Readings on Copyright_? What’s next?)

The day after you arrive is spent mainly exploring and shopping all around Tokyo, which although very fun, ends up burning through a third of the money you budgeted for the trip (you’re sure that somewhere in Sendai, Morita-sensei is shrieking). Momo ends up grabbing an expensive jacket that screams HARAJUKU and you buy a few souvenirs (TOURIST, it shouts). You also see a few random, cheap knickknacks that remind you of people back home. You buy a shirt that says “2 Hype 4 Dance” for Haruto, Umeko’s gift is a figurine of that Leek Spin girl because you’re still bitter, and you even see a cute eraser shaped like sushi that for some reason reminds you of Minami.

(You also see a volleyball keychain that says “Ace” and Oikawa flashes through your mind. The thought that maybe you should get it for him flits through your brain, surprising you—but then you quickly shove it aside, shaking your head as you put the keychain back. His birthday already passed, you don’t really know what an “ace” is anyway, plus he doesn’t seem like the type to want something kitschy like that… also why would you get him anything? You’re not friends or anything.)

The next day consists of university tours. In the morning you spend time at Tokyo Polytechnic University, also known as Shadai. Although Momo wasn’t super keen on the idea of touring campuses while on your Annual Extravaganza, she surprisingly ends up getting super invested in the visit, asking a plethora of questions—some relevant, some not—and taking so many pictures that the tour guide has to kindly ask her to stop, as she’s holding up the tour. There’s a twinkle in her eye afterward that wasn’t there at the beginning; as she rambles on about her thoughts of the university as you make your way over to Tokyo University, you smile, feeling happy that your friend seemed satisfied with the visit.

Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for your tour. Although the campus is beautiful and you can practically _feel_ the prestige, there’s something that’s just… off? You can’t really describe it. It’s certainly just a _you_ problem, as all the other Todai hopefuls are looking around in awe, eyes sparkling just like Momo’s were. But as you view the grounds—looking at the old brick buildings where some of the nation’s most promising youth learn, looking at the cobblestone that thousands of geniuses have walked across, looking at everything about this academic sanctuary nestled in the heart of a bustling metropolis—you can’t help but feel heavy, drained, almost like your energy is being slowly sapped from your body—

(You just chalk it up to the thick, sticky humidity and oppressive heat. Certainly that’s what it is—after all, Tokyo summers are no joke.)

When Momo asks you your thoughts as you’re walking towards the subway, you find that all you can really say is “Well, it was very informative.” And it’s true. In your bag is a folder filled with pamphlets and brochures with information on Todai, ranging from facts about the university’s alumni—did you know that ten have received Nobel Prizes, and that three others became astronauts?—to what a typical full-time first year’s schedule may look like.

When you come back from the public baths close to eleven that night, you see that Rie’s bedroom door is open and the light is on. You go to bade her a goodnight when you notice that she’s sitting at the desk facing away from you, form hunched over as she writes down something in a notebook. She is surrounded by towers of textbooks, each piled precariously like half-played games of Jenga. You hear her utter a curse and there’s a furious scratching sound as she crosses out whatever she just wrote. She sighs heavily, plopping her head down onto the desk, and doesn’t move for a good thirty seconds. You decide it’s probably better to leave her be.

“Studying,” Momo says grimly when you walk into your closet-turned-room, reading your concerned expression. “She’s been doing it every night since we’ve been here—you hadn’t noticed? Knowing her, Rie-chan’s probably not given herself a day off even though it’s summer break. She kind of reminds me of you.”

The brunette doesn’t catch how your shoulders sink just a little bit lower at her words, and she gives a small giggle when you flop down front-first onto your shared bed (read: futon couch), face mashed into your pillow. “You good?” she asks.

The words are muffled as you say, “Yeah. Just feel heavy… drained…”

“Probably from the baths,” Momo concludes for you, “especially since that old lady kept making it hotter. Jeez, what’s with old people and heat?”

(Yes—that’s what it must be. It must just be the heat, just like this afternoon.)

Rie’s small form flashes through your mind. _“She kind of reminds me of you,”_ Momo said.

You suppose you’d be like Rie if you got into Todai.

Four more years of intense studying. Four more years of pushing yourself hard—perhaps too hard sometimes. Four more years of very few breaks.

All to just survive at such a prestigious school, to just (hopefully) be part of the median—because remember, ten Nobel Prizes. Three astronauts.

A sea of geniuses.

Your last bit of energy is sapped away, and you fall into a fitful sleep.

* * *

On your final day in Tokyo, you and Momo decide to head over to the Tokyo Tower. As predicted, you barely made a dent in Momo’s long list of things she wanted to do—and so although you could be doing something like going to that Kawaii Monster Café or Sanrio Puroland, you both agree to take today a bit easy after yesterday’s very jam-packed day at Tokyo Disneyland (especially considering how Momo now sports a pretty nasty sunburn, and how you still feel a bit unsettled from riding on so many roller coasters).

Although it’s certainly no Tokyo Skytree, the Tower provides you with a beautiful view of the city. From the Main Observatory you can see the juxtaposition between transient and timeless, future and past. A well-kept shrine lays nestled between two streets packed with cars. Mt. Fuji towers in the back while skyscrapers sit like jagged teeth in the foreground. Although Sendai has its own blend of contemporary and traditional, it’s different from Tokyo’s. While your hometown marries the two together quite well, Tokyo is like a pioneer that refuses to leave its roots behind. It continues to squeeze in those traditions, making room among all the pop culture and technological advancements.

It’s a stark contrast that you, surprisingly, enjoy. And you find yourself thinking that you wouldn’t mind living here in the foreseeable future.

Momo points out a few things to you via the coin-operated binoculars, including the Skytree (despite the fact you can see it from Rie’s apartment just fine); her dream school, the _very_ prestigious Tokyo Zokei University (or, rather, she just points you in the general direction—it’s too small to see from this far away); and also the Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium (which, she explains, is where Seijoh’s Volleyball Club will play when they go to Nationals). She also points you in the direction of Keio University when you ask—how she knows where all of this stuff is, you haven’t a clue—and you notice that there are quite a few foreigners walking around campus, which piques your interest. From your research, you know that Keio has a copious amount of student exchange programs with universities from around the world, plus they offer courses in English to _all_ undergraduates, not just the non-Japanese students.

You’re not sure if it’s because you’re the daughter of two traveling businesspeople or if your affinity for the English language has anything to do with it, but all of this intrigues you quite a bit. Plus Keio consistently places high in university rankings, so it’s a great school, sure maybe not as prestigious as Todai, but maybe you’d not be stuck in the median at best, maybe only be surrounded by a _few_ geniuses rather than an ocean full—

Momo tugs on your sleeve and announces she’s hungry, which pulls you away from the rabbit hole you didn’t even realize you had started to tumble down. After briefly evaluating your own state—not necessarily hungry, but wanting a coffee per usual—you two decide to leave, heading to that cute little café you passed on the way to the Tower.

Once you’ve ordered and sat down, Momo says, “So, volleyball.”

Are you surprised about her topic of choice? No, not really. “Volleyball,” you repeat. “What of it?”

“The Spring Prelims start next week on Saturday. Do you want to go? Now that it’s summer break, you don’t have an excuse anymore.” That last comment is said in a grumble, but you catch it.

“What was that last bit?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing~” Momo says, waving her hand at you. She smiles, gray eyes bright. “So what do you think?”

You hum, sipping at your coffee slowly. You remember Oikawa mentioning a while back that they’d be playing at the Nationals, so maybe… “Is this for the Nationals?” you ask.

Momo blinks, obviously a bit taken aback at your question. “Yeah—the Spring Interhigh is one of the national tournaments.”

Interhigh. Somewhere a bell rings in your mind, but you don’t give yourself much time to mull about it before you question, “‘One of the national tournaments’?”

“Yes… I explained this to you in June.” Momo frowns a bit, furrowing her eyebrows. “Do you not remember?”

Nope, you don’t. You have a feeling that she’s alluding to that one day when you tuned her out during lunch, when she was caught up in Volleyball Thought. Whoops. “Sorry,” you say, grinning sheepishly when she sighs in exasperation. “Repeat it again for me?”

The brunette looks at you warily, as if debating if she should bother, but relents. “Every year there are two national volleyball tournaments—the Interhigh, and the Spring Interhigh,” she explains, and now you understand why the bell dinged in your head a moment ago. “We played in the Interhigh Qualifiers back at the beginning of June. Do you remember _this_ , at least?”

Oikawa’s sharp, irritated gaze flashes through your mind, sending a jolt down your spine. “Yes.”

“Okay, at least there’s that,” she says, leaning back and taking a bite of her sandwich. “Obviously, things didn’t turn out how we wanted them to. We were _so_ close, too… Had we won that final match, we’d be at the national tournament now—literally, right now, since it’s held at the beginning of August,” she adds, looking at her phone calendar, “instead of Shiratorizawa. Ugh, so frustrating.”

So that game that Oikawa and Iwaizumi and all the others had been so pressed about—that match that you had watered down to being one of many in “just a tournament”—ended up actually being a ticket to a national-level tourney.

Oh.

But Momo just said there’s another one… one in—

“Wait. _Spring_ Interhigh?” You furrow your eyebrows, looking at her in bewilderment. “When is this set of Nationals? _March_?” That’s when graduation is. Plus preparing for a competition during entrance exam season? That’s asinine. Your body would collapse if you weren’t careful—

“So it _used_ to be held in March, but they moved it to the beginning of January a while back so that third years had the opportunity to compete as well,” your friend clarifies. “Not every third year decides to stay on the team that long, though—it’s a really risky decision, because that means there’s less time to study for entrance exams if you’re going the Uni route.”

You guess a January competition is a bit better, but only marginally so. “To make that sort of decision…” you murmur. “That’s… difficult.”

Or rather, it’s dicey; precarious; jeopardous; borderline irrational; a decision you can’t fully understand.

“Guess it’s an easier decision to make when you have passion. Or if you have something to prove.” Momo shrugs noncommittedly. You hum, looking at the steaming contents of your mug. You feel your eyes glaze over as a familiar pair of chocolate brown eyes once again make their way into your thoughts.

_“There’s always going to be some_ prodigy _ahead of you.”_

_“I—_ we _—have been losing to him since middle school. It’s infuriating.”_

Now everything is becoming a bit clearer, like fog slowly lifting to reveal the path ahead. And with it comes understanding. _That’s_ why Oikawa was so upset. The final chance to go to a national-level tournament, ripped away at the very last moment by someone you have been trying to surpass for years. Constantly stuck behind, never quite fully able to make it—

Your heart thuds, and you’re suddenly aware of how much it hurts. Not with pity or sympathy, just… understanding.

But no, it _wasn’t_ the last chance. There’s still this Spring tournament. And despite all the risk, despite all the uncertainty—after all, who knows what the cards have in store this time around—despite the gamble… he still decides to push ahead.

That sheer determination, that raw desire to succeed at what you love—you can’t help but be impressed.

You’ve been there before.

And just like last time, your fingers twitch. A jolt suddenly shoots itself down your spine, electrifying and powerful. And you blink in shock.

The feeling is gone in a heartbeat, but you could have sworn that for a second—

“I’ll go.”

Momo, who had pulled out her phone after recognizing that you were in one of your Thinking Modes, looks up in surprise. She blinks a few times. “Huh?”

“I’ll go with you next Saturday.”

Momo’s mouth pops open in astonishment before she gives you a toothy grin, saying, “What a surprise!” She goes back to her phone, fingers flying against the screen. “Let me just text Fucchan—I’m sure she’ll be happy to hear she doesn’t have go this time around~”

“You already got her to agree?” you ask, a bit astounded. Didn’t she say ‘never again’…?

“Not exactly…” Momo concedes. “But don’t underestimate the power of my sway, (Name)-chan!”

* * *

“Do you know when you’re playing on Saturday?”

The sudden question pulls Oikawa up from his notes (not that he was really studying, though, considering it’s summer break). He looks at you to see you’re looking back at him expectantly, and the captain tilts his head to think. He played _last_ Saturday at the end of training camp… but this Saturday the team has off, other than an early morning practice. “Saturday?” he asks, confused.

You furrow your eyebrows, matching his confusion. “You know—your volleyball tournament this weekend.”

“Are you talking about the preliminaries for Spring Nationals?”

“Yeah, that,” you say, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “When are you playing?”

Oikawa is both a bit insulted and amused that you think a top seed team such as Aoba Johsai would have to play in the prelims, but then again, he really shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve shown a few times that you’re anything but knowledgeable when it comes to his sport. “We’re not,” he informs you. “We forego Prelims. We start playing at the Qualifiers in October.”

Oikawa watches as the realization comes to you. Your shoulders deflate slightly, and you murmur a small, disappointed, “Oh.” He finds himself grinning, amused.

“Why~? Were you planning on coming to cheer us on?” he queries, chin resting in his palm. His smirk grows wider when you sputter, looking at him with defiance.

“No,” you say, but Oikawa can tell by the light dusting of pink on your cheeks that it’s a lie. You then sigh heavily, muttering, “Dammit.”

That’s a reaction he wasn’t expecting. “Why the long face?”

Your lips pull downward just the slightest and there’s a slight pause before you concede. “Momo-chan invited me to go with her this weekend, and I said yes,” you admit. “But had I realized you guys weren’t playing….”

“Aha, so you _do_ admit that you were coming to support us!”

“Is that such a problem?” you borderline snap, obviously annoyed at his teasing.

Oikawa hums, smirk very wide. Your embarrassment is cute—not that he’s going to tell you that, though. “Quite the opposite, really,” he says in response to your retort. “There will be some good teams there.”

Like that annoying murder of crows. Oikawa feels his eye twitch just the slightest before brushing off his discontent, tucking the negative feelings away for the time being. “You’ll just get a preview of those who we’ll be crushing before we go to Nationals. Maybe you’ll even get to see the little dictator in action~” The words are airy and light, but tinged with the subtlest hint of malice.

You look at him a bit funny—something you often do when he makes references to things you don’t understand—but like always, you merely move on without comment. “Confident,” you say, and he shrugs as if to say _Can you blame me?_ “I’m assuming Ushi-kun and Shiratorizawa won’t be there either, then?”

_Ushi-kun._ That’s something he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to. Oikawa’s lighthearted mood immediately sours. “No. They’ll be starting at Qualifiers as well.”

(Part of him thinks that it’d just be easier to have Shiratorizawa demolish Karasuno first so that he doesn’t have to deal with both of them; but then Oikawa realizes that _no_ , he wants the opportunity to face both of them again—and this time, taste _two_ sweet victories.)

“You’ll have to make sure to come in October, then,” Oikawa tells you.

Much to his surprise, you don’t give a flat-out no. How touching. “I won’t understand what’s going on,” you murmur instead.

Certainly you understand the general basics by now, considering you’ve been coming to every Wednesday practice for months. “Haven’t you been watching us during practice?”

“I have better things to do,” you state. When Oikawa begins to whine, you scowl and clarify, “I study, okay? I need to make sure I’m prepared for entrance exams.” There’s a pause, and then, quieter than before, you say, “Need to get into Todai, after all.”

The weariness in your tone makes him pause; you spoke as if it was more a fact rather than a goal. “Tokyo University, huh? That’s ambitious.”

He catches the way your eyes darken just the slightest, spirit dampened. By now it’s relatively easy to read you if one knows what to look for—it’s just the reasoning that’s always cryptic. He wonders if he’s actually going to get a straightforward answer out of you today. Probably not, but wishful thinking.

“Yeah, well… It’s what’s expected of me.”

“But not what you want?” Oikawa questions, curious but also serious.

You look at him in surprise. When you register that he’s not being mocking, you pause, lips pressing down into a thin line. And then, much to his surprise, you actually decide to give an answer with substance, instead of your usual brushing off. “I don’t know,” you start, and the words ring with nervous sincerity. “Momo-chan and I went to Tokyo—”

He knows. “Yeah, I saw her Insta picture at Disneyland. You looked like you were about to vom—”

“ _Anyway_ ,” you interrupt sharply, glaring when he sticks his tongue out cheekily. “We decided to go on some tours since we were there. Momo-chan was so cute—I’ve never seen her _that_ interested in anything academic before.” There’s a fond smile on your face before it slips slowly at your next words. “And Todai… I just… I dunno. It was really pretty and I’m sure I gained a few IQ points by just being on campus, but… I just felt… tired.”

“Could it have been the Tokyo heat?” jokes Oikawa, despite the fact he knows that’s not the case.

“Maybe,” you say, lips quirking slightly in amusement. You look at him, eyes both mirthful and solemn. “I just wonder if I can handle four more years of that.”

Four _more_ years.

Oikawa decides to let it be for now. Not exactly a straightforward answer, but enough to understand. “Sounds like you have a lot of thinking to do, huh?”

“Guess so,” you say, tone distinctly marking the end of that conversation. After a second you look up at Oikawa, almost shyly so. “Speaking of… are you going to university?”

_“Have you found the limits of your abilities?”_

The old man’s words echo in his head, stern yet thoughtful. But Oikawa doesn’t want to think about that right now. “Not sure yet,” he says. “I’m keeping my options open~”

“But you still decided to stay on the team for the Spring tournament…?”

Wow, lots of sudden intrigue about the Spring Interhigh today, it seems. Oikawa looks at you for a hair longer than he’s intending to before saying smarmily, “Well, duh. What did you think we were still doing on the team? Having a tea party?”

The softness about you hardens into something a bit more familiar, and Oikawa grins. “I told you I don’t know anything about volleyball—”

“I’m well aware~”

You narrow your eyes, pursing your lips. “You know… I was going to say something nice about you, but when you act like that…”

When Oikawa’s eyes widen just the slightest, it’s in genuine surprise—both at the fact that you have something nice to say about him, and also because you actually disclosed you have a positive comment. He finds himself feeling a little warm at the admission; although he gets compliments all the time from others (the Pleasant Mask and People Pleaser Mode have served him well), it’s always a bit different when it comes from someone like you or Iwa-chan. You’re the type of people who don’t go out of their way to compliment just for the sake of complimenting, nor do you give praise often. Because of this, there is a level of sincerity when you eventually do, and Oikawa finds himself valuing those comments over the surface-level ones he seems to get all the time.

But of course he’s not going to reveal that to you. So, as always, he decides to cover it up with flippancy. “(Name)-chan, no~” he whines. “Sorry, sorry~ Please say what you were going to say~ Compliments from you are as rare and special as UFO sightings~”

“I—what?”

“Never mind, just please continue~ I’ll be nice, I promise~” The airs are on today, bold and a bit annoying—but obviously effective, considering your exasperated sigh cannot mask the small smile on your face.

“When you guys lost the Interhigh Qualifiers back in June”—Oikawa feels his eye twitch, because _What a nice reminder_ —“I didn’t understand what all the fuss was,” you begin, eyes contemplative. “I kept thinking to myself ‘It’s just one tournament! There’s plenty of others—it’s only June.’ But that’s not the case, is it? It wasn’t ‘just one tournament.’”

“No,” Oikawa says, suddenly feeling a bit subdued, “it wasn’t.”

To beat Ushiwaka and to finally go to Nationals—Oikawa has been craving that for a very long time. And now, in his final year, the chances of that happening are quickly slipping away. There’s only one more shot—one that comes at a hefty price of cutting into his studying, one that could very well affect his future negatively.

“I didn’t know. Not until Momo-chan explained it to me,” you murmur. “Your level of tenacity… not many people have that. It’s risky, but… quite admirable.” Your eyes are soft again; when you look at him, he sees that the tiny smile that floats its way to your face is sweet and genuine.

It takes him a moment to absorb it all. And when he does, that warm feeling grows, enveloping his entire body like a comforting hug.

Looks like he was correct—just like with Iwa-chan, your words hold a bit more value than he will admit to out loud.

Oikawa suddenly grins widely, and after a small chuckle to himself he pulls out his phone, flipping it to selfie mode. “Let’s take a picture,” he tells you, holding up a peace sign. He doesn’t give you time to process what’s happening before he snaps the photo. “Yay! This one will be called ‘(Name)-chan finally gives me a compliment and realizes that I’m the best.’”

You sputter a bit, cheeks turning pink. “I—I take back everything I just said!” you shout, tossing your pen at him when he laughs.

“Too late! It’s now documented in time~”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ya know this is just shy of 5k words and i wrote about 4k of it tonight in one sitting WOO let's GO
> 
> Kawaii Monster Cafe is a real thing. Have you all ever heard of the website Atlas Obscura? It has all of the off-the-beaten-path attractions you can see in a city. Real cool stuff!
> 
> Hope everyone is doing okay and staying healthy! Lots of love to all of you.


	10. The Difference Between a Weed and a Flower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"The strength of the team is each individual member. The strength of each member is the team."_ – Phil Jackson

Although your level of care for the Spring Prelims is practically nonexistent now due to the fact that Oikawa and team aren’t playing, you stick to your word and accompany Momo on Saturday to the matches. You’re still a bit grumpy as you feel like you’ve been slightly deceived—“I thought you knew they wouldn’t be playing!” Momo protested when you called her to complain, though you both know that she’s lying (because _why_ would you know?)—but the brunette had a latte for you when she arrived at your doorstep, so you guess all’s not that bad.

You’re surprised when the bus takes you across town, close to your old home. When you ask Momo about this (“Isn’t the Sendai City Gymnasium the _other_ way?”), she explains that Prelims are actually hosted at various different high schools due to the large number of teams competing. You briefly wonder if Shiratorizawa is hosting, as you’re very close to the campus, but instead the bus passes by its towering buildings and drops you off at a much smaller school—Kaji High. Momo buys a tournament program while you people-watch—you already thought that all (well, most) volleyball players are super tall, but some of these guys here are _huge_ (like that one guy that has to be at least six-and-a-half feet tall—what genes!)—before meandering up to the mezzanine. It feels so familiar that you almost wander over to the corner like you do while waiting for Oikawa, but then Momo steers you towards some bright yellow-and-blue banner where a team in equally bright yellow-and-blue uniforms is warming up.

Momo mentioned earlier that it was her long-time neighbor who invited her to attend, as he plays something called libero on one of the teams vying for a spot in the Spring Tournament—this IKEA Team, as you dub them. She points him out to you (“He’s the short guy in the blue—liberos, as a special defense position, get a different-colored jersey.”); when she calls his name with an enthusiastic wave and dazzling smile and he looks up with bright eyes and a _very_ apparent blush, it becomes painfully obvious to you why he invited her in the first place.

(“Ehhh, when did he start playing volleyball? Hmmm, probably when I told him how cool I used to think Ushi-chan was… why do you ask? By the way, do you think Ushi-chan still thinks of that one day I hit him with a volleyball!? Gods, I’m still haunted by it—talk about how uncool I was—!”)

Momo chatters a bit as the game goes on, explaining small things here and there about the various types of shots people are taking, why the libero keeps going on and off the court, who’s doing what and why they’re doing it, and so on. You’re surprised to find that you’re much more receptive to her explanations this time around. You also feel a bit more involved than you did back at April’s practice match, though these players are nowhere near as entertaining as those like Torino’s red-haired middle schooler and Salty Glasses Guy.

Even though you still don’t catch a lot of what’s happening, it’s apparent even to you that there is a disconnect, a subtle lack of communication, on the IKEA team. Your attention keeps honing to the guy tossing the ball, a nervous-looking boy who looks to be a first year. He seems incredibly unsure of himself, eyes darting to-and-fro frantically between his hitters, trying to find the best option to score. Nothing like a familiar brunette, what with his cocksure grin and easy throws and his tenacity, his passion—

“Hey,” you say suddenly, causing Momo to look up from her phone—posting pictures online, as always. “A while back, you said something… Something about Oikawa-kun bringing the best out of his teammates.” Your eyes shift to her, questioning. “What did you mean by that?”

Momo blinks once before starting, “Ehhhhh—”

You cut her off, already knowing what she’s planning on saying. “Yeah, yeah, I already know. ‘How surprising (Name) is asking a volleyball-related question!’”

“Well it _is_ ,” she argues, looking at you calculatingly. “It’s not like you’ve really shown much interest these past few months. Or ever, in fact.”

“Yeah, well…” You trail off. A lot is changing, it seems. The fact you’re actively asking questions, the fact you’re (sort of) voluntarily going to a volleyball game, the fact that you _care_ …

Things change.

Momo sniffles dramatically, wrapping her arms around your shoulders to give you a squeeze. “Look at Princess (Name)~! Just a few short months ago she wanted _nothing_ to do with volleyball, and now here she is asking questions! My influence is growing!”

You roll your eyes good-naturedly, batting your friend away. “Sure…” you mutter, grinning at her.

The brunette grins back before turning back to the match below, eyes softening fondly. “So what makes a good setter?” she asks you.

Shouldn’t you be asking her that, not the other way around? You shrug noncommittedly. “Scoring? A strong serve?”

“Strong serve?”

You frown slightly at your friend’s confusion. Your mind flits back to the beginning of the year, back when you first saw that incredibly powerful, pinpoint serve of Oikawa’s: that threatening serve that demanded attention, demanded surprise and intimidation, that serve that proved Oikawa wasn’t playing around anymore, I am—no, _we are_ —going to Nationals. The serve that left chills down your spine. The serve that left you intrigued and impressed—though you’re never going to admit to that.

And instead of speaking your carefully thought-out ideas, your descriptive internal monologue, you merely ask dumbly, “Isn’t it part of the job?”

The noise Momo makes is a weird crossover between a snort and a giggle. “No, no—that’s not a setter-exclusive thing,” she answers, smirking broadly. “All players, minus the libero—quiz time, what’s a libero again?”

“Uh… Your neighbor friend in the one jersey that’s not that garish yellow color.” _And the one who keeps looking up here at you but you’re not noticing,_ you think of adding, but decide now’s not the right time.

“And he specializes in…”

“…Defense?”

“ _Ding ding ding_!” your friend announces, acting as if you’ve not answered a question that has only two possible solutions. “Correct—as defense specialists, they do not participate in serving or anything offensive. Usually.” You don’t know what that last bit means, and Momo’s too busy giving you a silly smile to clarify. “How cute you think it’s the setter’s job to have a strong serve. Obviously someone’s been watching Oikawa-kun~”

Well, not quite—or at least not actively. “Don’t make fun of me for a stupid answer,” you grumble, a bit sour.

“I’m not!” she defends—but after a moment she gives you a sheepish smile, admitting, “Okay, it kinda is. But just a little bit! _Totally_ expected for a volleyball noob.”

“I can’t tell if that’s an insult or not…”

Momo wiggles her eyebrows as if to say “you decide,” but shifts back to the topic at hand. “But going back, _yes_ ; Oikawa-kun has a super powerful serve. But that’s just because he works a lot on it, and it shows.” She smiles, tilting her head in consideration. “It’s really impressive, isn’t it?”

You purse your lips, thinking again of that monster accuracy and those nasty red welts on Salty Blonde’s arms. “It’s something, that’s for sure,” you admit, and leave it at that. “So what makes a good setter, then?” you query.

“That’s a very complicated question to answer,” responds Momo, causing a wry grin to twitch its way up to your face—then why ask _you_ , the Volleyball Noob, in the first place? “So many factors go into it. Excellent knowledge of the game, great timing, quick thinking—which didn’t happen there,” your best friend states, pointing down at the game below where IKEA Team’s opponents are cheering after stuffing yet another spike.

She continues her explanation. “Good accuracy, great communication and leadership… These are all important things to keep in mind. I’d argue that every setter has at least one or two of these qualities, but the really good ones—the ones that are the cornerstone of a team’s offense, the ones that play a pivotal role in a team’s success—have all of these.

“Oikawa-kun, unsurprisingly, has all these qualities. But his capabilities go beyond that. I don’t really understand all of it,” Momo admits, shrugging, “but from what I’ve seen, he has… hmm, well, he’s found the perfect blend of leading his teammates—pushing their capabilities, using them exactly as he wants—and molding himself to his teammates’ wants and needs—that is, knowing exactly what kind of tosses they want and the ones they’ll be most successful with, knowing _who_ to toss to, both for strategic purposes and morale…”

The brunette shrugs again. “By balancing that thin line of pushing the threshold of someone’s limits without going too far… I don’t know a lot of high-school setters who have that. Usually it goes one way or the other—either the setter is just a slave to the spikers, or they are too demanding, like…”

“Like a tyrannical king. A dictator,” you supply, remembering Oikawa’s remark from the other day. Lighthearted, yet at the same time so heavy. A dichotomy—or, now that you think about it, more like a mask, an air of indifference while really the same is not being reflected internally…

“Exactly. Wow, (Name)-chan, great parallel!” states Momo, and you give her a sheepish smile. “But yes. There’s way more to it than what I just said, naturally, but hope that answers your question just a bit. Knowing the strengths and weaknesses of each teammate, having the ability to quickly adapt… It makes Oikawa-kun an excellent leader capable of bringing the best out of his teammates, if not any volleyball player.”

You think that’s the end of it, but then Momo makes another weird noise and once again wraps her arms around you, shaking you slightly. “He’s so cool~ I’m so jealous you’re his partner~!” she whines, voice pitched a tad higher—a trait that tells you that Fangirl Momo has decided to make an appearance.

You once again shake her off just as the opposing team erupts in cheers from a successful attack. (“If you had your eyes on the _ball_ instead of up in that _mezzanine_ ,” shouts IKEA Team’s coach at Neighbor Libero, “then _maybe_ we wouldn’t be about to lose this set! Volleyball _now_ , girls _later_!”) Momo quickly goes back to watching the game with rapt attention, shouting words of encouragement at her friend—though you’re not entirely sure it helps, considering he is flushed a tomato red and barely manages to save the ball after a nasty spike is sent his way.

You continue to watch as well, though your mind drifts to Momo’s vague-yet-still-clear-answer your question. You don’t know how much of anything she said is true, as you really can’t speak on anything volleyball-related—that is apparent. Yet as you mull her words, thinking about Oikawa, his many faces, and that unwavering drive to succeed…

“The ability to bring out the best in every player, huh…” you murmur to yourself. You can’t help the smile that flits up to your face.

It’s tiny, almost nonexistent, but there nonetheless.

“Ehh~ Are you talking about that guy? You need better observation skills, (Name)-chan; he’s dropping the ball, quite literally.”

The sudden flippant voice to your left makes you jump, and you turn your head to see a very familiar face, one which is looking down at the server (the nervous setter who, indeed, fumbled the ball when someone tossed one at him to serve) with a curious, amused smirk. Oikawa slides his gaze to you, grin widening when he sees your surprise. He’s wearing his glasses today, you note; they glint in the gym’s natural light, making him appear a bit more mischievous than perhaps is normal.

While Momo’s obvious embarrassment and surprise is borderline palpable—“O-O-Oikawa-kun!” she shouts in surprise, suddenly sounding quite stiff—you merely hum, looking at him curiously. “What a surprise. Why are you here?”

“Am I not allowed to come watch some matches?” retorts Oikawa. “My partner suddenly develops an interest in my sport, so of course I was curious to see who had captured her attention. It’s not that guy, is it?” he asks, gesturing to the anxious, bumbling first year. “He’s pretty weak. You can do better.”

You mutter a quiet “No one’s captured my attention,” though you’re ignored entirely. Oikawa looks past you and fixes his gaze on Momo, who is almost as red as her blouse. “Momorin, right?” he asks, smooth voice dipping low, taking on that charming quality you haven’t heard in quite a while.

Momo looks almost ready to faint. She grabs your forearm, though the gesture is not as subtle as you think she thinks it is. Her hands are clammy, you note with a bit of discomfort. “Y-Yes!”

“I heard that you nailed Ushiwaka in the face with a volleyball,” he says, as if that’s the most normal statement to say to anyone.

(You roll your eyes, because _of course_.)

“Good work~” he compliments with a lopsided grin. “If you ever want someone to _really_ teach you the basics of volleyball, I’d be happy to be your coach. I can guarantee I’m a better teacher than him~”

While you give a small, exasperated sigh, Momo gives a quivering “T-T-Thank you for the kindness, O-Oikawa-kun! That’s so generous of you!” Her nails are digging into your arm now, causing you to hiss lightly. Your small protests fall dead—you’re sure she can’t hear you with all of that steam blowing out of her ears.

Oikawa runs a hand through his chestnut-colored hair. His grin widens even further, crooked and handsome. He’s not even bothering to hide his smugness at this point. “The pleasure is all mine,” he tells your friend. He then focuses on you, eyes sparking with amusement at your flat, unimpressed expression. The captain pats you on the head, turning. “Come find me when this game is done,” he says to you, looking at you sidelong. “I’ll be watching my darling, annoying _kouhai_ on Court A. What a coincidence you just happened to be at the same venue as him~”

_Kouhai_? you wonder, watching as he walks off. You don’t get much time to really think about it further, however, for the arms attached to your forearm now fly up to your shoulders, shaking wildly.

“MOMORIN!” shouts Momo. “He gave me a nickname! MOMORIN! But (Name)-chan, you told him about Ushi-chan?!” The shaking intensifies.

“Momo-ch—”

“He probably thinks I did it on purpose and that I’m this violent person—”

“I dunno, Momo-chan, he seemed pretty excited that you— _gah_ , can’t see straight—”

“Did you hear, he said _he’d teach me volleyball_ —maybe I should pick it back up again—”

“That’s really not a good idea—”

“Also did you SEE how hot he is in GLASSES!” Now the arms wrap around you yet again, squeezing tighter than before. “I CAN’T—”

“ _Lungs… air!_ ”

* * *

A short bit later the game wraps up, resulting in the IKEA Team’s rather embarrassing loss of 25-15. Momo opts to stay behind to comfort her neighbor, and although you’re not entirely sure if he _wants_ Momo’s company right now—sometimes the last person you want to see after such a devasting defeat is the person you’re interested in, and you assume that’s the case with him (based on the flush that’s crawled up his neck and the fact he’s avoiding looking at her anymore)—you let it be and meander over to Gymnasium One to find Oikawa.

He’s leaning against the back wall. The brunette’s body language is carefree and lax, hands tucked neatly into his pants; his eyes, however, hold that acute seriousness that signify rapt attention. He doesn’t spare you a glance when you approach and doesn’t necessarily look to be in the mood to chat, so you stay silent as you tuck yourself near his side, flitting your attention to his _kouhai_ ’s game below.

You blink when you see the familiar black uniforms of Torino. They seem a bit shaken at first—understandable, considering they’re going against that giant volleyball player you saw in the lobby—but they quickly collect themselves, steadily gathering up points against the other team. There’s now a sense of cohesion to them that you didn’t see back in April, most noticeably between the black-haired setter and the baby middle schooler. You’re not exactly sure you’d call it friendship or anything like that (especially considering how they keep bickering both off _and_ on the court), but there seems to be a bond between the two of them, a quiet trust that only they understand. Very quickly do Torino’s players find their tempos, weaving the lines together to create a steady, unshakable rhythm; before you know it, they’re already flying through the second set. This is not going to be a very long game.

“They’re pretty good,” you comment about Torino, breaking the heavy lull of silence you and your partner had fallen into. And you mean it, what with your amateur knowledge of the sport.

“They’re also incredibly annoying,” Oikawa sneers. His voice is laced with a slight hint of malice, one that takes you back a bit. You slide your gaze up to his face, slightly wary, mouth ajar to speak—but then the room erupts into cheers when the redhead bumps the ball against the giant’s hands, sending it tumbling down into bounds to score the final point of the game. You look back to the court, watching as the redhead stares at his hand in amazement (did he win by a fluke, or perhaps a new technique?) and as the rest of Torino rushes over to celebrate. You can’t help but smile a bit at their enthusiasm—their ragtag team never fails to amuse you.

Oikawa shifts suddenly, and you once again look back up at his face. His eyes, dark and full of rumbling fire, burn with an even mix of annoyance and challenge. Underlying it all is also something very foreign, something you’ve never seen in Oikawa before, something you thought would _never_ be part of Oikawa’s range of emotions and feelings:

Insecurity.

It’s so subtle that you barely register what you’re reading, but it’s there nonetheless, stubbornly seeping through the tiny cracks in Oikawa’s mask. A deep-rooted feeling that refuses to go away no matter what, always rearing its head no matter how much it’s ignored. That draining self-doubt, always battling against your biggest enemy—yourself…

“How interesting,” Oikawa murmurs, but he sounds flat, irked. He slips his gaze down to you, and a chill runs slowly down your spine at the intense scrutiny. The captain pushes himself off the wall, looking back down at the court one last time. He smirks suddenly, eyes narrowed, before walking past you with a “Let’s go.”

You hesitate just slightly and cast a quick look down at the court. Some of the members of Torino are looking up, eyes narrowed in both surprise and suspicion. When Shaved Head Guy sees you, however, he gawks and then proceeds to point, looking towards the short libero with two-toned hair. You quickly slip out of the door, feeling a bit embarrassed, and rush to catch up to your partner.

* * *

Oikawa sees him before you do.

“Okay,” you start, pulling up the bus app. You’re trailing after Oikawa, following his path so you don’t run into anything while you’re on your phone. The harsh sunlight is making it difficult to see the image on your screen, so you squint and push your nose closer to the device, announcing, “This says here that the next bus is in ten minu—”

You’re cut off as you run headlong into something solid and warm, which makes you grunt in surprise. You look up, a bit annoyed—obviously your plan of following the volleyball captain is ineffective—but then you realize that it’s _Oikawa_ that you’ve run into, and you only ran into him because he stopped. You open your mouth to ask why when you see he’s looking at someone with narrowed eyes, suddenly very tense; following his line of vision, you realize that Ushijima Wakatoshi has suddenly appeared from around the corner.

_Uh oh._

Ushijima is looking at Oikawa passively, face unreadable as always. “Oikawa,” he states. That intense, olive green stare slides down to you, and recognition flits across his face. “(Surname), too.”

“Hi, Ushi-kun,” you say softly, feeling a bit awkward. “Been a while.”

Oikawa hums lightly; the smirk on his face is not a kind one. “To what do we owe the pleasure?” he asks Ushijima, though his tone makes it sound anything but.

“I happen to pass by here often on my runs,” answers Ushijima, and it’s then that you realize he is indeed in jogging attire (though he doesn’t look even the slightest bit out of breath or sweaty—seriously, how do these volleyball players do it?). He tilts his head ever-so-slightly in your partner’s direction. “I’m surprised you’d be wasting your time by watching the Preliminaries,” he states bluntly.

You know he doesn’t mean it rudely, but Ushi-kun has never been the best with words—therefore, you’re completely unsurprised when Oikawa bristles slightly at the remark. “Just wanted to get a sneak peek of who we’ll be stepping on before going to Nationals,” your partner says loftily, arrogantly. You refrain from sighing at the bravado.

A hand is placed on your lower back—Oikawa. The gesture is so gentle it’s hard to place it with the boy who’s practically sizzling with tension. He begins to guide you around Ushijima, insistent but not demanding. “See you at the finals,” Oikawa finishes, making it _very_ clear he’s done with this conversation.

Ushijima, however, apparently is not. “You should avoid overconfidence,” he states resolutely, voice ringing with clarity.

Oikawa stops dead in his tracks, hand slipping from your back. You look up at him in surprise, but the brunette merely stares straight ahead, lips pulled into a thin line. Ushijima is looking at him, having turned to address both of you again. Those hazel eyes are stern, unyielding. Suddenly you find yourself feeling tense as well, gut clenching as you brace yourself for what’s to come.

“If you wanted to go to Nationals, you should have chosen the correct path for yourself. Aoba Johsai was not the right choice,” Ushijima continues.

_“‘Oikawa,’”_ you remember Oikawa mimicking once, _“‘you let your pride choose for you, and it chose wrong.’”_

“The strongest set of six will always be the victors. You may have extraordinary capabilities, but how can you thrive when the rest of your team is holding you back? One flower cannot bloom in a field of weeds.”

_“‘Plant seeds in infertile soil, and no fruit will be born.’”_

It’s just an opinion, but gods be damned if he doesn’t make it sound like fact.

And you find that you don’t really like those facts, nor do you like Ushijima talking like that to Oikawa.

Oikawa’s hands ball up into white-knuckled fists. He’s been doing well at holding his tongue so far, but you can see his tolerance is at its limit. He begins to turn to respond, eyes flashing dangerously—

But then you beat him to the punch, speaking before you even realize what you’re doing.

“Ushi-kun,” you say, giving the tiniest of respectful bows, “please excuse my intrusion, but I do feel as though your words are a little unfair.”

The air becomes suddenly intense, almost as if lightning has struck and all that’s left is that electrifying, unstable current. You can feel both sets of eyes on you, burning holes into your soul. Your automatic reaction is to want to skirt away, to fold in under the pressure—but instead you hold your ground, desperately trying to ignore the wild beating of your heart. Your hands busy themselves with the hem of your shirt, fiddling like always. You breathe in, attempting to channel Momo best you can, and then begin, voice clear and full of conviction:

“I see how Oikawa-kun plays and how he’s able to bring out the best in any player—anyone can see it. And… And that’s a remarkable feat that no one else here can do.” You look at Ushijima, eyes bright, words tumbling out of your lips in a steady stream. “It doesn’t matter where he is—he could have gone to Shiratorizawa, or he could have gone to a no-name school—but no matter the place, he is _still_ able to draw the best out of his teammates. Everyone plays at 100% with him. And that’s really… that’s really amazing.

“Maybe it’s not enough to win every game all the time, but _I_ know that it’s more than enough to beat everyone in Septe—when’s your bit of the tournament again?” you ask, looking back at Oikawa.

“October—”

“—it’s more than enough to beat everyone in October and go all the way through Spring Nationals.”

Is any of this correct or plausible? You don’t really know—you’re just repeating the watered-down version of what Momo told you today with a little bit of dramatic flourish—but… well, you really hope it is.

“With that being said,” you finish, “I am personally very glad that he chose to go to Seijoh. You said that one flower cannot bloom in a field of weeds. Maybe this is true—I don’t know, I’m not great with plants—but isn’t the difference between a weed and a flower in the eye of the beholder?”

The silence that follows is deafening. Ushijima’s face doesn’t change from its normal placid expression, but his eyes flash with the subtlest hint of surprise. The message probably doesn’t faze him in the least, but the fact that it’s _you_ speaking up… Well, you don’t blame him. After all, even you yourself are taken a bit aback at your boldness.

After a few seconds of no one doing anything, you feel a little bit of that courage slip away, coming down as your adrenaline slows. So you give a hasty bow to your former neighbor, swiveling around to push Oikawa along with a bit more urgency than necessary. “Now if you’ll excuse us, our bus is coming soon. It was nice seeing you, Ushi-kun; see you in October,” you call over your shoulder.

And then, not really knowing why you do it, you end your correspondence with a “Sato Momoko sends her regards.”

(On his end, Ushijima watches quietly as the two of you disappear, lips pressed firmly together. Finally, he murmurs, “You keep interesting company, Oikawa Tooru…”

As he turns to continue his light 10k jog, he thinks about your last words—“Sato Momoko sends her regards”—and blinks, wondering why does that name sound so familiar, and why does his cheek suddenly feel a little sore?)

(Elsewhere in Sendai, Sato Momo sneezes.)

* * *

The ride home is silent save for the ambient noises of the road, something you’re totally fine with. Oikawa just looks out the window, lost in thought or sulking—you can’t tell at this point—and you’re on your phone the majority of the time, playing some stupid game Umeko downloaded on your phone for you and answering Momo’s incessant texts:

**Sato Momo:** _i sneezed_  
 **Sato Momo:** _were you talking about me with oikawakun???_  
 **Sato Momo:** _hope you said good things_

Oikawa _still_ hasn’t said anything by the time your twenty-minute bus ride is over, so as you’re hopping off the vehicle you decide to break the ice. “What’s with the silence?” you ask, looking over at him. “I was expecting you to complain the whole time about Ushi-kun. You’re subverting my expectations.”

Your light attempt at humor doesn’t work; Oikawa merely stays quiet for a bit, lips turned downward in a frown, before grumbling, “I didn’t need defending, you know.”

Ah, so _that’s_ what it is. You also pause, looking up at the sky—beautiful hues of orange and yellows from the setting sun—before shrugging. “Of course you didn’t,” you answer sincerely, “but I really didn’t like…” You quickly trail off, words dying on your lips.

_I really didn’t like how he was talking to you._

“…I thought he was being too melodramatic,” you conclude. “You weren’t wrong about him being poetic while insulting. That’s honestly a talent.”

This joke—or is it a truth?—lands, and Oikawa’s lips quiver upward into a smirk. He huffs, inflating a bit at your words, but he still looks contemplative. There’s another lapse in conversation before he says, “So you’re glad I went to Aoba Johsai, huh?” The words are teasing, but when he looks at you, there’s a depth to his eyes, the typical smugness absent. Or maybe it’s just the trick of the light against his glasses, you don’t know.

“Don’t let it get to your head,” you retort, rolling your eyes lightly. Your partner chuckles but doesn’t give any sort of response otherwise.

Silence rolls in yet again, comfortable and familiar. You worry your bottom lip, debating on if you should say your next words or not… But you finally decide whatever, you’ve already said enough today—why not add another thought. “I meant what I said, you know,” you murmur, voice soft. Oikawa looks towards you but you refuse to look at him, instead staring at the rolling Miyagi hills. “I mean, can’t really speak about the whole ‘drawing out the best in any player’ thing—I don’t have a clue, sorry; I was just borrowing Momo-chan’s words, since she knows more about that stuff than me—but what even someone like me _can_ tell is that although you’re a huge pain in the ass, especially to Iwaizumi-kun—”

“ _Maa_ , (Name)-chan~”

“—your team really does trust and value you as a captain,” you finish. “Except maybe that new guy—you know, the one with the stripes on his head.”

“Oh, Mad Dog-chan? Don’t mind him,” Oikawa comments. He hums curiously. “I thought you said you don’t pay attention to our practices while waiting for me~?”

“I don’t,” you defend, or at least not actively—because like you told Oikawa previously, you have more things to worry about. “But I can tell just by talking with Iwaizumi-kun, Hanamaki-san—everyone… They really believe in you.”

This is the one thing you can say with certainty. Of course you haven’t had as many opportunities to talk with the other volleyball players as much as you do Oikawa—but whenever you do and the captain is brought up, there’s always a layer of fondness and respect amidst the teasing and bitching (the latter, of course, being mostly from Iwaizumi).

Oikawa, with all of his problematic and childish characteristics, still shows the traits of being a loyal friend and trustworthy leader, even if sometimes it’s hard to see or understand.

You’re slowly starting to see and understand yourself.

“So yeah,” you continue, stretching your arms out towards the setting sun and trying to sound as relaxed and nonchalant as possible, “I really don’t know what’s happening on the court—though today I _did_ learn what a libero is, so progress—but I think you guys have the stuff to take it all the way, especially with you at the wheel. After all, didn’t you win—ah, what did Momo-chan call it—um… Best Passer Award?”

“Best _Passer_ Award?” queries Oikawa, but you can tell from his smirk that he knows you’re just pulling his leg. You know the actual term; you decided to memorize it after your conversation about Nationals.

“Well duh. You _pass_ the ball to others, right?” you say with a smirk. “Makes sense to call it that.”

“Man, you’re so smart at everything _but_ volleyball. And kanji.”

“Umeboshi-oneesan likes to say I’m a very serious idiot who works really hard.” To be fair, she’s only said it to you once… but that’s another tale for another day.

“Umebo— _heh_ ,” laughs Oikawa, smirking. “She’s not wrong~”

You feign irritation. “You know if more girls saw this side of you, you’d not have nearly as many fangirls as you do.”

“Take that back.”

“Then say you don’t agree with my sister.”

“Can’t do that.”

“Then alas, we are at an impasse.”

The laugh Oikawa lets out is genuine and mirthful, and you can’t help but smile.

* * *

**BONUS**   
  
_KARASUNO, Kaji High. Mere moments after their win against Kakugawa High and seeing Oikawa._

“Did you see the Great King?!”

“Yeah, what’s he trying to do—scout or somethin’?”

“Heh, bet he’s scared of us. As he should be!”

“That doesn’t sound like Oikawa-san…”

“More importantly, did you see that girl he was with?!”

“YEAH! She was gorgeous.”

“He has fangirls _and_ a beautiful girlfriend like that?! Totally unfair, man…”

“Ooooooh that guy pisses me off so bad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now the real question is: did Oikawa go to Kaji High to see Karasuno, or did he go to see Reader-chan? hmmm the world will never know lol
> 
> As a side, just realized that we're already 10 chapters in! Before I took a break in writing, I'd only really post one-shots (also I found my collection of them... oh gosh LOL what ~quality~). Anything that was multi-chaptered was unfortunately abandoned after a few chapters because life - so reaching 10 chapters is a personal milestone for me. Thanks to everyone who has clicked and taken the time to read this long-winded, bumbling story. Really, seeing all of the kind support makes my dead heart feel all warm and fuzzy lol. :D 
> 
> But seriously, thanks for reading! Your support means the world. :) 
> 
> My brain was _all_ over the place when writing and editing (do you ever have those weeks where you feel like your body and brain are on different planets?), so this chapter is also all over the place lol. Hope you still enjoy though. See you in the next one!


	11. The Quiet Courage of Trying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“One may walk over the highest mountain one step at a time.”_ \- John Wanamaker

At the beginning of the new semester, Momo announces her decision to make her life even more difficult with an ambitious project, as if these next two semesters aren’t going to be hellish enough.

“So I have an idea inspired by the Photo Koshien, and I want your brains,” she tells you and Fumiko the moment she enters your classroom for lunch, placing her bento down with a resolute _clack_. “ _Reflections of the Within._ What’s the first thing that pops into your head when I say that?”

“Abstract,” you answer, while Fumiko responds with a slightly dramatic, borderline existential “The constant, internal dilemma of deciding whether or not I need to do something.” While you look at your friend funny—seeing your look, she just shrugs and murmurs “Not wrong to want things easy and straightforward”—Momo sighs, obviously not very satisfied with your responses.

“Try again,” the brunette says. “ _Reflections of the Within_ —go.”

“Confusing” is your second response, and Fumiko’s is “What you did after being scored in the thirtieth percentile for first term exams.” Although the quip doesn’t quite land as fluidly as maybe Fumiko wanted and it’s at poor Momo’s expense, you can’t help but give Fumiko a first bump while Momo squawks.

“ _Excuse_ me for not testing well,” your best friend scoffs with narrowed eyes. “Sorry I can’t be ranked first and twentieth overall like you two brainiacs.”

You snort (please—you only ranked that high that because you studied nonstop for a whole month) and ask, “So what is this Internal Reflections thing, why do you need our brains, and what’s this idea you have?”

“It’s my portfolio theme,” Momo tells you proudly, “for my university applications.”

You blink, a bit surprised; Momo gives you a hasty “Hear me out” after she sees your expression, so you stay quiet and do just that. Your friend goes on to explain that each round of the Photo Koshien was themed, which allowed the photographers to really delve deep into their ideas, pushing the boundaries of creative interpretation. Each artist’s perception of the motif was uniquely them, creating a mosaic of concepts and thoughts come to life. After seeing how one single theme could be expanded upon to mold so many different works of art, your friend was really inspired to challenge herself as she moved forward with crafting her university portfolio—thus _Reflections of the Within_ was born.

Which is all great, but you’re still not entirely sure _what_ , exactly, _Reflections of the Within_ even entails—is it indeed Fumiko’s forever conflict of choosing to be lazy or not? Or perhaps it is Momo’s internal reflection after ranking so low on exams, you don’t know. “While that’s great and all, Momo-chan,” you start, furrowing your eyebrows, “what, exactly, is _Reflections of the Within_ supposed to be…?”

“You said it yourself, (Name)-chan,” responds Fumiko with a grin. “Abstract confusion.”

“ _No_ , Fucchan,” Momo says, sticking her tongue cheekily out at your friend. “It’s… you know… _Reflections of the Within_.”

“Um…” You trail off. You don’t need to clarify that no, you _don’t_ know what she means.

Momo begins to wave her hand about flippantly. “It’s like… you know how I always say editing a photo can’t take away the core emotion of the photograph? Like when we were on the train to Tokyo and you looked _super_ tired in all of those photos, (Name)-chan—actually, that moment is what gave me this idea. _Man_ , even with a bit of color on your lips you still looked dead—”

“Moving on,” you interrupt, cheeks feeling a bit warm while Fumiko’s amused gaze slide towards you.

“ _That’s_ what I’m going for,” Momo declares, oblivious to your slight embarrassment. “The theme is meant to be about capturing those moments in time where we can see the raw, the real, the ugly, the hidden—the _reflection_ of what’s _within_. Make sense now?”

“Yes,” you answer, because when she puts it like that, it’s pretty clear.

“But you had to explain it,” says Fumiko, “which means the title’s too complicated.”

Momo sighs. “Yeah, figured as much from your original answers,” she murmurs, running a hand through her short locks. “Which is where I need your brains. We all know I’m not great with deep thought—but _you_ two, Lazy Einstein and Princess of Brooding and Internal, Deep Monologue, are. Can you think of anything poetic?”

“Again, more instances of ‘I can’t tell if that’s an insult or not’…” you mutter, and yet again Momo wiggles her eyebrows at you.

“Help your dumb peasant friend out,” Momo says. “Can you think of anything eloquent, anything poetic or deep?”

(“ _Abstract Confusion_ ,” Fumiko says again with a grin.

“ _No,_ Fucchan! What—what does that have to even do with the theme?”

“Oooookay, how about _The Three Faces of the Japanese_?”

“Too existential and vague.”

“More vague than _Reflections of the Within_?”

“…Touché.”)

You hum and go quiet, your friends’ banter becoming white noise in the background as you think. You tap your chin, allowing words to float around in your head freely—raw, real, deep, reflection… abstract, hidden within, three faces…

_“Things are not always as they seem.”_

And suddenly you smile. “How about _Phaedrus_?” you supply.

Momo blinks at you, furrowing her eyebrows. “And you say _Reflections of the Within_ is too abstract.” She tilts her head. “What is that, even— _Fa—Fu-ah-doo_ —” Unsurprisingly, the word trips her up, the foreign syllables landing harshly in her mouth.

“‘Things are not always as they seem,’” you interrupt. “Have you heard that quote before?”

“Well yeah,” Momo says while Fumiko hums in recognition, “and now I know what you’re talking about. But I can’t use that quote as the title; it’s too long.”

“Then just use _Phae_ —”

“(Name)-chan,” whines Momo, “no one will know what that is except you~”

Well, and at least one other person, one with chestnut eyes that flicker with many different moods and emotions, one who easily fits the bill of what the Roman fabulist was indeed talking about.

“That’s just a Western version of _The Three Faces of the Japanese_ ,” Fumiko grumbles, pulling you from your train of thought. And she’s right, in a way. Both the Japanese proverb and Phaedrus’ pondering thought allude to the fact that what one presents may not be always authentic—

And that’s when you get the idea. “How about _Authenticity_?” you ask Momo. It’s short, sweet, relatively to the point, but still vague enough to satisfy Momo’s tastes.

Momo gives you a toothy grin. “That has a nice ring to it.” She slaps a hand down onto the desk. “ _Authenticity_ it is!”

“So you’re doing this theme thing voluntarily?” asks Fumiko.

Momo nods, shrugging when she sees Fumiko shoot her an incredulous look. “I really want to wow the Department heads. Thought it’d be really impressive if I can still showcase all of my skills while encompassing an overarching theme.”

“That’s so much _work_ ,” Fumiko states, though her tone is a mix of exasperation and awe. She looks toward you. “Thank gods we don’t have to do anything like that for Todai, huh?”

You smirk dryly. Although Fumiko is technically correct in that you don’t have to submit anything supplementary like a portfolio, admission into Tokyo University (or any national university, really) has its own hurdles. You will take the National Center Test for University Admissions in January like most everyone else—but for those of you gunning for a spot in those elitist schools, you need to score high enough on it in order to even be invited to Todai’s university-specific exam. It’s a lot of pressure and a _lot_ of extra work, and so you do not miss the slight, unintentional irony of Fumiko’s comment.

“Ugh, entrance exams. Don’t remind me,” groans Momo, running her hands again through her short hair. The mention of university exams creates a palpable tension around your best friend—unsurprising, considering how poorly she generally tests.

“Your theme idea is really ambitious, Momo-chan,” you say with a smile, but then quickly sober up as you speak your next words. “Are you… are you going to be okay?” Although she’s applying to universities that won’t require her to take the Center Test, she will still need to work and study hard to meet the university requirements. Every school has its own criteria for admission, but they still need to make sure their future students can continue to represent their school well enough.

Momo sighs, the misery about exams easily displayed on her face, but she shakes her head softly after a moment. “It’s a risk, yeah,” she starts, small smile flitting onto her lips. “Who knows how it will turn out—maybe it will blow up in my face, I dunno. But I know I can do it… I have faith that it will be good enough, so I want to try, you know?”

When the brunette looks up at you, her eyes are unwavering. The passion ignited in those steel-colored orbs is bright and intense, absolutely resolute with no room for even a hint of doubt. She knows she can do it, and she won’t accept anything otherwise. Some may call it naïvely ambitious, but you know what it truly is.

Fumiko does too, apparently, for she says with a shrug, “If anyone can do it, it’s you. Genius isn’t always about intelligence.”

Momo smiles, face as bright as the sun. She begins to chatter on about various things, from the ideas she has for _Authenticity (Formerly Titled Reflections of the Within)_ —“Nope, just stick with _Authenticity_ ,” Fumiko tells her—to asking about the lazy genius’s relationship with her project partner (“So when do I get my 500 yen?” she asks, to which Fumiko responds with a “Not going to happen,” though the slight blush on her face tells you otherwise). The conversation has well moved on past the ideas of Trying and Genius, yet you find yourself circling back to it as you quietly pick at your food, only half-listening to your friends.

Momo is ambitious, passionate, and gifted. She always likes to brush off her skills—she claims that all she’s doing is pressing buttons and fiddling around with settings and whatnot—but you know that she has that rare, instinctual ability to draw out the inherent beauty in absolutely everything. Sure, maybe the “core emotion” of the photograph is always there, but to be able to permanently capture such intimate occasions when the fleeting moment is gone after seconds, to make a picture worth one thousand words—

You agree with Fumiko—if anyone can do it, it’s Momo. And Momo knows, too. She will try this ambitious project of hers, and she will succeed. And although she did acknowledge the possibility of everything collapsing around her, all three of you know that she doesn’t have to worry about that whatsoever.

After all, Momo is a genius.

And geniuses, from your experience, always end up on top.

* * *

At the end of the week, Momo somehow convinces you to forego your usual café date to instead accompany her to visit Umeko’s university. For a split second you’re a bit confused as to why your friend would go out of her way to visit your sister—after all, Momo sees her all the time whenever she’s at your house—but then you catch sight of the brunette’s camera bag slung over her shoulder, and after that it’s easy to click the pieces into place. After all, if anyone is a good subject on authenticity, it’s Umeko—especially when she’s dancing.

Umeko’s university consists of only a few thousand students and is not super well-known outside of the Tohoku region, but it’s a lovely little campus that sits just outside of the metropolis, allowing students to see the beautiful Miyagi mountains from the dorms while also still being close enough that downtown is just a few train stops away. The university administration practically threw money at your sister when they found out she applied, obviously ecstatic at the opportunity to have such a talented athlete interested in their university—and although the school’s dance club is quite lax (in fact, it reminds you very much of how Seijoh was before Takai showed up), Umeko decided to accept the full scholarship without much hesitation. It makes sense, after all: campus is close enough to home that she can just bus every day, she doesn’t have to worry about tuition, _and_ she was actually able to pass their entrance exam (which didn’t happen with the other universities… though anytime you bring it up she just cuts you off with a loud “We don’t speak about those things in this household.”).

Strangely enough, one of the other perks of Umeko’s situation is that because the dance club is so lax, she gets more opportunity to work and compete independently. Umeko is very active in the competitive dance world—you’re not sure she could be otherwise, considering her personality—but has branded herself as a solo dancer following the disbandment of the Chrysanthemum Suns, and she doesn’t seem too keen on joining another dance crew anytime soon. Since her university’s team is not interested in competition, she managed to loophole her way into the Intercollegiate scene as a solo dancer despite being the only one from her school participating in the national competition (“I don’t see anything wrong with it,” she’s argued before. “Doesn’t matter if there’s five-hundred of us or just one—someone is still representing the school and giving them a good rep.”).

Umeko also somehow managed to finagle her way into getting a spare studio key so that she could practice whenever she wanted instead of renting a space from one of the local dance studios (“Why spend money when there’s free facilities! It’s called being _economical_ , (Name)—”), which is exactly what she’s doing when you and Momo wander into the cozy studio. Your sister gives you a quick grin as a hello but otherwise pays you two no mind as she continues to work through what looks to be some kind of complicated footwork. Momo swiftly gets to snapping pictures while you sit near the shoe cubby, cracking open one of your textbooks to bide the time.

Umeko’s music is very loud, however, and the constant pausing and rewinding of the song—an upbeat, very bass-heavy remix—keeps pulling you out of the zone, so eventually you decide to put away your study materials and instead hone in on Umeko’s practice. As you thought, her footwork is incredibly difficult, saturated with lots of quick jumps, heel-to-toe movement, and precise, deadly accurate motion that perfectly follows the ebb and flow of the music’s tune. It’s impressive, but exhausting to even watch.

“You going to give it a shot?” asks Momo, smiling as she slides down next to you. She sifts through her camera roll, fingers moving rapidly as she quickly sorts through the photos she deems worthy to keep and deleting the rest. They all look good to you, but then again you’re not the photography genius.

You snort, rolling your eyes. “Not a chance. There’s no way I would be able to do _that_ ,” you mutter, nodding to Umeko.

“How do you know if you haven’t given it a try?” your friend asks simply, shrugging.

You purse your lips, opening your mouth to respond, when your sister calls, “She’s got a point, (Name).” Umeko leans against the mirrors, one arm clutching her water bottle while the other fans at her reddened face. She’s got a grin plastered on, the kind that alludes to the mischievous ideas swirling around in her head.

You know what she’s getting at. You frown and before she can open her mouth again, you say, “No.”

“C’mon, (Name)—let your elder sister teach you some new tricks—”

“ _Oneesan_ , I won’t be able to—”

“That’s because you’re saying no before you’re even allowing yourself the opportunity—”

“I can’t—”

But Umeko’s already in front of you, clammy hands grasping your wrists and hauling you up to your feet. “You _can’t_ , you _won’t_ ,” she mimics, tugging you to the center of the studio. “Why are you so negative? Of course you’re not going to get anywhere if you don’t try.”

It’s always the same argument whenever she somehow ropes you into learning her insane routines. But for some reason today her words hit you a bit differently than they normally do, and you find yourself frowning. _Trying._ Of course that’s easy for her to say—but any negative thought that’s starting to form is quickly drowned out as Umeko begins to blare the music again, the heavy beats pulsing through your body and barely giving you any space to think.

Your sister begins to attempt to lead you in her choreography, starting off slow but then eventually leaving you in the dust as the footwork becomes more complex, the patterns intertwining with one another until you’re confused about which foot does which movement and which skip or hop comes next. Within minutes of the upbeat, swift routine you can already feel the sweat dripping down your spine. You swear you almost twist your ankle when Umeko tries to show you a complicated, fast-paced glide; exasperated, you ask, “What _is_ this?”

“Oh, this?” Umeko asks breezily, looking like she’s barely broken a sweat. “It’s just some footwork I thought of last night, heavily inspired by house dance. I’m planning on incorporating it into a new routine. Pretty cool, huh?”

“It’s complicated,” you mutter, reaching out to take the water your sister holds out. You’re not surprised now that you know the origins, though—house dance is known for its characteristic fast-paced footwork. You’ve never been good at anything really complex… but then again, you’ve not had much of a chance, considering anything remotely difficult was always done with a partner leading you around. You don’t have much experience as a solo dancer—and, you suppose, you probably never will, considering the two-year plateau that doesn’t seem to have an end in sight. You feel yourself grimace just the slightest.

Umeko grins. “I never said it wasn’t going to be.” She takes a sip of water once you pass the bottle back to her, face contemplative. “Intercollegiate Prelims are coming up in about a month, and so I wanted to bring something new.”

Your eyebrows furrow slightly. “Why not wait until the actual Intercollegiate to do this?” you ask. Isn’t she kind of cutting it short, trying to create and master a routine that’s already this complex in such a short amount of time? Although there’s no doubt in your mind that Umeko will pass Prelims just fine, it would make more sense to hold off on debuting a showstopper, allowing her more time to polish and solidify the choreography.

“I _could_ , but where’s the fun in that?” Your sister shrugs nonchalantly, throwing up a whimsical peace sign. “Sure, the time crunch is a pain in the ass, but it’ll look really impressive if I can get it down. It’ll be good. I know I can do it, so I want to try.”

Umeko is grinning at you cheekily, but there’s sincerity in her eyes, mixing and swirling with the unbridled passion and unwavering resoluteness. Just like with Momo earlier in the week, there’s absolutely no trace of doubt flickering behind those (color) orbs. She knows she can do it, and she won’t accept anything otherwise. Some may call it baseless cockiness, but you know what it really is.

Momo does too, it seems. With a bright smile, she calls, “If anyone can do it, it’s you, Umeko-neechan! You’re a genius!” The comment elicits a hearty laugh and broad grin from the elder female. As you quietly slip back to your spot on the floor, you can’t help but let yourself be drawn quietly back into your thoughts.

Umeko is confident, determined, and brilliant. _“C’mon, (Name)! Just try! I promise it’s not that hard—it’s just body movement,”_ she likes to say whenever she’s teaching you. And sure, maybe that’s just what dance is at the end of the day—but Umeko has always had the ability to make everything appear organic and natural, an instinctual ability of understanding how her body works and how to mold and shape her movements in a way that others just can’t—

So yes. Momo is right—if anyone can do it, it’s Umeko. And just like with your friend and her portfolio, Umeko knows, too. She will try to create and master this complex routine of hers, and she absolutely will succeed.

After all, Umeko is a genius.

And geniuses like her can try hundreds of things and never once be concerned about failure or stagnation.

Your eyes glaze over as you watch two geniuses continue to work, watching as they polish those innate abilities that they just seemed to have been born with.

* * *

At Wednesday dance practice, Coach Takai finally announces whose routines have made the cut for the Fall Prefectural—and in a surprise to literally no one, yours and Haruto’s is not picked. Your coach seems to have been relatively picky in his choice for this particular competition, having chosen mostly only third years and a select few second years to represent Seijoh this time around. Minami practically jumps for joy when her solo routine is selected, which makes you smile for her.

You’re expecting Tatsuya and Takamaki-san’s routine to be selected for Pairs, but strangely enough Coach Takai only calls Takamaki’s name, meaning she will be dancing alone in the Prefectural’s Solo subcategory. You’re not entirely sure what that’s about, but you assume that means that they will just compete together in the Spring Prefectural. It’s a risky choice to compete in January—but like Momo said to you during summer vacation, you guess it’s an easier decision to make when you have passion… or if you have something to prove.

After hearing that you two didn’t make the cut, Haruto gives a very dry “Oh, how unfortunate” and then proceeds to tell Coach Takai that he’s officially retiring from Dance Club. You’re honestly surprised he didn’t pull a Fumiko at the beginning of the year and just flat out quit as soon as he could—you have a sneaking suspicion he stuck around for you (as without him you’d be left floundering and probably paired up with some first year who has no clue as to why you’re so _meh_ about dance)—but now there’s really no reason for either of you to stick around, considering there’s nothing for you to work towards anymore (not that you were _really_ working towards the Fall Prefectural… but that’s beside the point).

Unfortunately for Haruto, though, Coach merely frowns and says, “No you’re not.” When Haruto looks at him with his typical “what the fuck” face, Takai tells him that he’s not allowing any third year to quit until after the Fall Prefectural, which is happening the last Sunday of October. When your partner opens his mouth to more than likely ask _why_ , Takai holds up a finger and murmurs, “ _Shhhh_ , be still. And don’t ask questions.”

“Is he _allowed_ to force us to stay…?” Haruto asks you as you two leave the studio. When you shrug in response, he adds, “Maybe I should talk to Yagi-sensei…”

You smirk, saying, “ _Yeah_ , good luck with that.” Yagi-sensei is the dance advisor—though he’s not exactly advising and never really _has_ , considering he’s been able to fly under the radar and not do much for years. When the previous coach suddenly quit, however, Yagi’s feet were held the fire as the Dance Club hiatus dragged into May, and other teachers began to get suspicious about his level of involvement with the club. Takai’s arrival and subsequent volunteering as instructor really saved Yagi’s ass, which is why the advisor lets his godsent coach do whatever he really wants.

You pat your friend sympathetically on the shoulder when he groans in reluctant agreement. “We’ll be done soon enough,” you say. And it’s true—although two months may seem like a long time, time flies by quicker than one realizes. Understanding suddenly hits you, and you blink.

You’re still thinking about it when you meander up to the gym’s mezzanine and settle into your normal spot. You’ll be done with dance soon. It’s kind of odd to say, really. This long chapter of your life, started when you were five, is finally being closed. The chances of you continuing dance in university are virtually slim to none—even _if_ you wanted to (which, considering you’re still floating around in the passionless abyss of unknown origin, is probably not something that will change), you’re really not sure how much time you’d be able to dedicate, especially if you go somewhere like Todai—so _yes_ , come November, your dance career will essentially be over. An anticlimactic end to over a decade’s worth of hard work, love, and loss.

 _So this is how it ends,_ you think. Unpassionate, uneventful… just ceasing to exist, merely fading away like a whisper.

The realization makes you purse your lips, pulling them back into a thin line.

You don’t know if volleyball practice ends prematurely or if you just get wrapped up so deeply in your thoughts that time seems to move swifter than normal, but the next thing you know Coach Irihata has finished his standard closing speech, and the volleyball members begin to pack away their things. You take your time grabbing all of your belongings—you have to wait for Oikawa anyway, and that can take either five minutes or twenty depending on how annoying he’s trying to be that day—and so you’re the last one in the mezzanine by the time you make your way over to the door. Just as you’re about to exit into the cool summer air, however, the smack of skin against a volleyball resounds down on the court; confused, you peer over the edge and realize that Oikawa hasn’t left yet, nor does he seem to be intending to do so anytime soon (considering the cart full of volleyballs next to him).

Iwaizumi, the only other person down below, sees you looking over and frowns. “ _Oi_ ,” he calls to Oikawa, “choose a day to stay late when someone _isn’t_ waiting for you.”

Oikawa blinks as if remembering what day it is and pauses. His eyes flit up to you briefly before he turns his attention back to his best friend, head tilted curiously. “Iwa-chan, when did you start caring about other people?” the captain asks. His tone is contemplative and _sounds_ sincere, but you know that his word choice is very deliberate, aimed to push the spiker’s buttons.

And, unsurprisingly, it works. Iwaizumi gives the brunette a glare so icy that you swear the temperature in the room dips, and Oikawa quickly raises both hands in a placating gesture, declaring, “Okay, okay, I’m sorry! I’ll do just a few serves. You don’t mind, do you, (Name)-chan?” he calls, voice raised.

If you had any sort of witty reply, it doesn’t come. So instead you blink and murmur a small “Ah, no… It’s fine.”

Oikawa smirks at your answer, satisfied. “See?” he says to Iwaizumi.

Iwaizumi grunts, muttering something under his breath—you catch your name along with something akin to “you’re lucky she’s patient”—before he shoulders his bag and begins to walk to the locker rooms, stating clearly, “Just a few, Oikawa.”

“Okay, Mom~” replies the brunette. He makes a small noise of surprise when a ball flies past his head, missing him by mere inches.

(“Ahahaha, Iwa-chan, your aim is not as good as it was bef—” starts Oikawa, but another volleyball comes flying at him again, this time hitting its target straight in the forehead. The setter whines loudly and you can’t help but grin at the exchange, giving Iwaizumi a thumbs-up. You catch the athlete’s smirk before his figure disappears around the door.)

You decide to make your way down to the ground floor now that everyone is gone, hopping up onto the auditorium stage even though you’re probably not supposed to. You really don’t want to pull out homework if it’s going to be “just a few,” so as Oikawa continues to work on his serve you’re just on your phone, idly scrolling through whatever’s on social media. As more time continues to pass, though, you find your eyes settling more on the captain, watching carefully as he practices that monster serve. He does it over, and over, and over and over and over—so much so that you lose track of the number of times.

Each serve looks the exact same to you, what with its impressive speed that slams its way down to the other side of the court (and occasionally into the net, though it’s not often); but you can tell by the way Oikawa pauses thoughtfully after each attempt, eyes cold and calculating, that he’s evaluating everything with shrewd observation, making minor changes to perfect something that already looks perfect to you. Occasionally he curses whenever something goes wrong, face twisting in irritation, before resetting to try again. Never once does he smile or smirk or say anything haughty—in fact, he’s much quieter than normal, and the more time passes the more he seems to be pulled deeper and deeper into thought.

His arms are red, you notice. Not from improper technique, of course—but from constant repetition, constant trying.

And suddenly you’re reminded of your small conversation with Momo at the dance studio:

 _There’s no way I would be able to do_ that _.”_

_“How do you know if you haven’t given it a try?”_

Your fingers twitch.

He’s just about to go up for yet another attempt when you speak, voice clear in the quiet gym. “That’s a powerful serve you got there.”

Your comment makes Oikawa pause, and he looks at you. There’s a depth to his dark eyes that you have only seen a few times before, a clouded, far away look that happens when he’s just coming back after being lost in thought. His voice dips low as he murmurs, “It’s not good enough.”

All of it makes you pause, blinking in surprise. Oikawa says no more, but he doesn’t have to. His fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around the ball, dark locks shadowing his face.

You’re reminded of that insecurity that he let slip onto his face at Kaji High. The slightest of hints to what’s underneath that confident mask, the never-ending battle of self-doubt, the struggle of choosing to persevere even when it seems fruitless.

For Oikawa, will it _ever_ be good enough? You don’t know—and maybe he doesn’t know, either—but he persists nonetheless.

 _“You_ can’t _, you_ won’t _. Why are you so negative? Of course you’re not going to get anywhere if you don’t try.”_

Your fingers twitch.

And then suddenly you’re hopping off the stage, wrapping your black jacket around your waist as you walk towards the captain. “Alright,” you start with a clap of your hands, rubbing them together. “So how do you do this thing?”

Oikawa blinks, distant eyes sharpening a bit on your form. “What?”

You frown, though it’s just for show. “Forget already? You told me you’d teach me volleyball and that I’d fall in love with it or something. Highly doubt that either will really happen, but here I am. Better hurry up before I change my mind.”

There’s a split second of stunned silence before—“What about the project?”

You tilt your head towards the gym clock. Oikawa’s “just a few” has turned out to be nearing thirty minutes of nonstop tries. “By the time we’re on our way and get settled, it will almost be dinnertime. We have until December to complete this thing,” you say with a shrug. “I don’t think skipping one Wednesday is going to kill us.”

You, an academic worrywart, allowing yourself a break to learn a sport you never had any previous interest in? My, how things have changed.

Oikawa also seems a bit taken aback, for he asks hesitantly, “You’re sure?”

“Yes I’m sure,” you state, pulling the ball from his hands and bouncing it like a basketball. “Now you have ten minutes to teach me how to spike like Iwaizumi-kun. If my debut’s going to be in the 2020 Summer Olympics, we’d better get a move on.”

Obviously it’s all nonsense. You’re not going to fall in love with the sport, nor are you going to remember how to do any of this well tomorrow. Absolutely nothing is going to come of Oikawa teaching you the basics of volleyball.

But, well… you can still try.

Oikawa hesitates once more before smirking. He shakes his head, and when he looks back at you again those shadowed eyes are replaced with amused, clear ones. “Let’s manage our expectations, shall we?”

* * *

After practice most days Iwaizumi prefers to take his time when packing up, usually enjoying the time to reflect on practice, to chat with his teammates, or (mostly commonly and most annoyingly) to wait on Oikawa to finally get his slow ass moving so they can walk home together. The ace finds that today is more of a reflection day, though it’s not as much about the practice as it is his flippant captain.

Oikawa has more been on-edge as of late. It’s been more noticeable the closer they’re getting to the Qualifiers, but Iwaizumi’s noticed that the captain’s change in demeanor has been particularly more prominent ever since he went to go watch the Prelims. Why he bothered to go is something Iwaizumi is still not sure of—and of course in typical Oikawa fashion, the only answer the spiker got when he asked was a light-hearted “Just checking on something~”

Regardless of the reason, since then the captain has been more tense, and thus more _in_ tense. Oikawa’s gone back to the “arrive early, stay late” mentality, much as it was before Interhigh, and Iwaizumi knows that his friend has also doubled his conditioning, pushing his limits to try to perfect things that cannot be perfected. At practices Oikawa still puts on those annoying airs, but there’s a particular level of seriousness and severity about him, and sometimes Iwaizumi catches the brunette in a contemplative mood when he's alone, shadows dancing across his eyes as he analyzes everything he does with harsh criticism.

It’s not necessarily that any of these things are bad by themselves. In fact, this level of intensity and shrewd analysis can be considered good in moderation, as this type of behavior is what really can propel people to excellence. But this is Oikawa, and Oikawa always has a tendency to take things too far, to push aside his personal wellbeing in that maddening, never-ending pursuit of success.

And although Iwaizumi doesn’t like to admit it out loud, he does worry for his stupid friend.

The ace knows that Hanamaki and Matsukawa have also noticed the shift in behavior. And when Iwaizumi comes into the locker rooms grumbling about how Oikawa needs to learn to take a break—after all, today is the sixth day in a row he’s stayed behind to do some extra practice—Hanamaki laughs and says, “Can’t really blame him, though. I mean, we’re all feeling the pressure, aren’t we?”

Which is true. “But _we’re_ not dumb enough to run ourselves into the ground,” mutters Iwaizumi, placing his bag down onto the bench. “Oikawa is… well…”

“Stupidkawa?” supplies the light-haired wing spiker with a grin, opting to use Iwaizumi’s normal template of Oikawa insults.

Matsukawa also jumps in. “Stubbornkawa?”

“Let’s-tell-him-he-owes-us-food-if-he-misses-his-serve-during-our-gameskawa?”

“That last one doesn’t even work,” says Iwaizumi, though he can’t help but think that it’s a good idea.

Hanamaki grins, knowing what the ace is thinking, and Matsukawa laughs. “Let’s just leave him be for now,” the bushy-browed athlete states. “I’m sure he won’t go too long with (Surname)-chan waiting. Speaking of types of -kawas, how Luckykawa that he got paired with such a cute girl for the Budget Project. It’s such a buzzkill to be paired with a _dude_ …”

As the conversation devolves into Matsukawa complaining about his partner being a man and about how Oikawa and Iwaizumi have got it good (“My partner’s the absolute worst. She’s crazy,” Iwaizumi says with a growl, to which the middle blocker argues, “But she’s still a girl!”), Iwaizumi can’t help but briefly hope that Matsukawa is right, and that Oikawa has some semblance of consideration for his partner.

But it appears that’s not the case—for almost an hour later, when Iwaizumi finally leaves the clubroom, he still hears noise coming from the gym as he passes by. The dark-haired athlete feels his irritation flare, and he thinks _Damn that Oikawa_ before pulling open the gym door forcefully, shouting, “ _Oi_ —this isn’t _just a few_!”

But instead of seeing Oikawa, the ace sees you on the court, looking at him with wide, deerlike eyes. The ball that you just threw into the air bounces down uselessly on the floor, rolling off to the side. From the sidelines Oikawa groans, reaching down to pick up the ball. “Way to go, Iwa-chan,” he calls. “Always interrupting the flow~”

Iwaizumi opens his mouth to rebuke the snarky comment when you suddenly bow to him slightly in apology, head dipped down low enough that the wing spiker is caught off-guard a bit. “I’m sorry, Iwaizumi-kun,” you start, though Iwaizumi has no real clue why you’re apologizing. “It’s my fault—I asked him to teach me—”

Your flusterment causes Iwaizumi to feel flustered himself, and the wing spiker subconsciously takes a small step back, hand running through his short hair sheepishly. “N-No, it’s not a problem—”

“Didn’t sound like that a few seconds ago~” Oikawa states loftily, words bouncing as he grins at his friend.

“Shut up, you—”

“We’ll be done soon, Iwaizumi-kun, I promise,” you kindly interrupt, voice soft but firm. “I just… I just want to try one more time.”

You pull up from your cordial bow, and Iwaizumi is surprised to see the look in your eyes. There’s a quiet adamancy about you, a subtle hint of determination. Why it’s there he isn’t too sure—from what the ace has gathered you’re just learning some simple volleyball basics, nothing more—but he can’t help but be vaguely reminded of Oikawa, once the captain has stripped away all of the fake bravado and pleasantries. It’s a bit odd to see you like this, if he’s honest. The dark-haired athlete doesn’t know you _too_ too well, but he’s never really pegged you as resolute—it’s not that you don’t have a backbone, but you seem to be the kind of person who just accepts things as they come, not fighting against the cards that have been handed to you. You’re just there, existing and laying low on the sidelines.

But this look does not belong to someone who’s just _there_. So who knows—maybe Iwaizumi’s assumption about you is just wrong.

Iwaizumi realizes that you’re still looking at him curiously and that he’s been staring, which causes him to flush just a bit. Oikawa is looking at him with a narrowed smirk, eyes unreadable. The gruff ace doesn’t feel like trying to interpret his friend’s cryptic look, though, so instead he merely turns back to you. He _was_ going to say that you all really need to clean up before patrol comes around, but you seem so determined, so resolute. So instead he sighs and relents, murmuring, “We’ll need to start breaking everything down in five minutes.”

The small, bright smile that you give him makes Iwaizumi’s chest puff up a bit. Oikawa makes his way towards you, asking the wing spiker to go stand on the other side of the court, just ahead of the front line. The ace does so without much thought, not entirely sure what Oikawa is trying—but then it becomes apparent when Oikawa, advising you on your stance a bit, states, “Okay, (Name)-chan—now aim for Iwa-chan’s head, and do just like we’ve been practicing.”

If looks could kill, Oikawa would be dead from the glare Iwaizumi sends him. It’s short-lived, however, for the sound of the volleyball being hit weakly brings him back to the now. Your aim is poor and there’s hardly any power behind the serve, but the ball smacks gently into the top of the net, wobbling a bit before barely tumbling down onto the other side.

It’s a bad serve for even absolute beginners, but there’s no way you’d be able to tell by the way Oikawa smiles—and, Iwaizumi is shocked to find, it’s _genuine_ —and gives you an enthusiastic high-five, cheering, “Yahoo, (Name)-chan~! You did it!” You return the high-five and although you look sheepish, Iwaizumi catches the wide, toothy smile. Your face shines with satisfaction, and by the way you’re looking at Oikawa, Iwaizumi suddenly understands where the tiny change in determination came from.

Guess Oikawa has the ability to influence others in a positive manner. Would you look at that.

Iwaizumi meanders over to help his friend with the net while you rush around to grab the stray volleyballs. When you pass by, the ace is shocked to see your arms peppered generously with bright red welts—not necessarily because they’re there, but there are _so_ many. There’s one near your wrist that looks particularly bad, the skin puffy and already beginning to darken as blood wells to the surface. Iwaizumi had a bruise like that back when he first started volleyball. It took over a week to heal.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve telling her to aim at my head,” Iwaizumi growls as he reaches Oikawa, reaching up to help undo the net.

Oikawa smirks. “I was just giving her a visual,” he murmurs. “We both know she wouldn’t have actually been able to hit it that far.”

Iwaizumi grunts in response. He pauses a moment before commenting, “Her arms are bright red.” When the setter nods, the black-haired athlete grumbles, “Why didn’t you stop her?”

“I tried,” Oikawa states simply, “but she wanted to keep trying.”

The captain’s voice suddenly sounds a bit thick, tone strange and unfamiliar to Iwaizumi’s ears. The ace hones in on his friend, evaluating, but Oikawa keeps his face neutral and placid, revealing nothing of what he may be thinking. So Iwaizumi tries a different route. “You know, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you smile without being fake.”

Oikawa looks up at the wing spiker, eyebrows furrowing. “I’m always genuine,” he lies.

Iwaizumi rolls his eye. “ _Please_.” Oikawa begins to whine but the vice-captain cuts him off, continuing. “I’ve seen this shtick from you multiple times,” he starts, nodding at the net. “You teach a girl the basics and then she swoons and becomes part of your little entourage of fangirls—”

“It’s not like I _volunteer_ —they ask and I deliver because I’m nice—”

“—but with _her_ ,” Iwaizumi interrupts, tilting his head in your direction, “it’s different, isn’t it? You were actually wanting her to succeed and were _genuinely happy_ when she did. All without any of your standard shitty, ulterior motives. What gives?”

Surprisingly, Oikawa doesn’t have an immediate retort. The brunette looks towards you silently, eyes lingering just a bit, before he shrugs and turns back to the task at hand. “Don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” he states simply.

It’s a lie, one that Iwaizumi only catches because he’s known the setter for so long. The ace frowns and opens his mouth to call his friend out on his bullshit, but then pauses. There’s the tiniest hint of a smile on Oikawa’s face, imperceptible unless you know what you’re looking for.

So Iwaizumi lets Oikawa’s dumb, fake remark slide for once, not saying anything as the two continue to break down the net.

Looks like you’re not the only one who’s being influenced.

* * *

You’re lifting your hand to write something down when you accidentally knock your wrist into the desk, sending a searing, sharp pain down your arm. The ache makes you hiss quietly and you look down. A violent, nasty bruise greets you, the skin near your wrist bone an array of ugly browns, blacks, blues, and yellows. It’s been like this for a few days, and you don’t suspect it to heal anytime soon.

But you’re okay with that, in a weird way.

Your thoughts drift over to that night last week. The conversation ebbed and flowed effortlessly as it does nowadays, filled with snarky banter and light-hearted teasing, but eventually it circled back to topics more solemn, more vulnerable. When Oikawa explained to you why he had been staying behind recently—“I’m trying some new things out with my serve”—you asked why, because you were genuinely curious. You didn’t think that such a simple question would cause Oikawa to withdraw back into his thoughts, but it had; when he answered with a quiet “Because it’s not good enough,” the words were serious, slightly bitter and tinged with frustration.

“Will you be able to do it?” You spoke a bit haphazardly, not thinking much of the repercussions.

You were expecting some sort of easy, flippant response (“ _Of course_ ,” you thought he’d say, “ _I’m me._ ”), but instead he merely stayed silent, reaching over to hand you a spare volleyball. He still didn’t let go even when you had wrapped your hands around it; when you looked up at him curiously, he was staring at the worn, tri-colored leather, brown eyes just a shade darker than normal. He didn’t give you a verbal answer, instead merely opting to respond with a half-hearted shrug.

But you understood—maybe more than he knew you did. “But you’re still trying,” you said to him as he finally let go, taking a step back.

“I am still trying,” Oikawa confirmed—and then, obviously done with the conversation, easily segued into a snarky “Relax your stance. You’re doing an underhand serve, not preparing for an MMA fight~”

It’s been days since that conversation, yet it still rings in your head. It reminds you a lot of the talks you had with Momo and Umeko—it seems everyone seems to be trying something nowadays, pushing their limits to new heights.

Oikawa is driven, diligent, and zealous. You’ve never really heard him speak much about his abilities, but he doesn’t really _need_ to—his actions speak louder than words ever could. It’s clear to anyone who’s watching that he’s talented, filled to the brim with knowledge and expertise accumulated from years of incessant practice. Constant working, constant tweaking, repetition after repetition until things work, or maybe sometimes they don’t—but that continuous, incessant drive to continue—

Your fingers twitch, and you frown. It’s here again, that quiet and sudden Urge to dance again, the desperate Urge to want to try and reclaim your love for dance back. It’s always a fleeting feeling, gone almost as soon as it comes—but it’s here, and it’s unmistakable just like the first time it showed up all those months ago.

You haven’t been able to figure out why it happens only with Oikawa. At first you thought that maybe you were moved by his drive, his passion—but you know plenty of people like him, people like Momo and Umeko. The types of confident people who go after what they want, reaching out to conquer a new goal, the types who _know_ they can do it and that they will be good enough and so they try, you know, the geniuses—

_“I know I can do it… I have faith that it will be good enough, so I want to try, you know?”_

_“—it’ll look really impressive if I can get it down. It’ll be good. I know I can do it, so I want to try.”_

_“It’s not good enough.”_

Well… wait. Is Oikawa Tooru a genius?

You had just assumed so, but now that you really think about it…

The disdain that you just thought was rivalry—

 _“There’s always going to be some_ prodigy _ahead of you.”_

—the constant pushing, sometimes so hard that injury happens—

_“He’s been out the first few week of school because he injured his leg. Poor him.”_

—the never-ending push for success, despite never quite fully being able to make it—

“ _I_ —we— _have been losing to him since middle school. It’s infuriating.”_

—the insecurity—

_Underlying it all is also something very foreign, something you’ve never seen in Oikawa before, something you thought would never be part of Oikawa’s range of emotions and feelings—_

No… Oikawa Tooru is not a genius, is he?

But he still tries.

The Urge flares again. It’s small, still under the surface, weak, gone instantly… but it keeps coming back, again and again and again.

No, Oikawa Tooru is not a genius. He’s just like you—someone who holds promise, someone who has to work two times harder than the geniuses, someone who never knows what the fruits of their labor will bear—

_“It’s not good enough.”_

_“But you’re still trying.”_

_“I am still trying.”_

But unlike you, Oikawa Tooru keeps trying even when nothing goes right, even when everything seems like a waste, even when things have plateaued.

You look at that awful, horrendous bruise on your wrist. It has many companions underneath the sleeves of your uniform, lovely little reminders of when you tried. Despite the fact that it was mostly for nothing, despite the fact that you still can’t serve well, despite the fact that you probably won’t be able to do it again… Well, you tried, and kept trying until you succeeded.

The Urge pops up again, but this time not because of Oikawa—but because of _you_ , and the fact that _you_ persevered.

And you find yourself smiling.

Later that day, when Takai asks for volunteers to showcase a new set of partner dance moves learnt at today’s practice, you turn to Haruto. “Hey,” you murmur, catching his attention.

“Yeah?”

“Sorry in advance and don’t hate me,” you say—and then before Haruto has the opportunity to ask you what, exactly, you’re talking about, you raise your hand to volunteer.

A stunned silence falls over the room and all eyes lock onto you in wonder. But you’re not paying attention to them. You just stare at Takai, letting him see that quiet courage reflecting in your eyes. Your coach stares back, eyes stern, but the tiniest of smirks flit onto his mouth. He jerks his head for you to come forward, and you rise.

You know that your time with dance is coming to a close. You know that this longwinded saga is ending anticlimactically, just ceasing to exist. You know that your love for dance is not back, and you know that nothing will currently change that. You know that there’s nothing left for you to work towards.

You are not going to succeed, you are not going to conquer, you will not make it to the top first.

You are not a genius.

And yet you still find that you want to try, to try and make the most of the little time you have left.

Somewhere deep down inside, that chain keeping you anchored inside that aimless, passionless abyss loosens just slightly, and you find yourself moving the tiniest bit closer to the surface.

It’s just a little bit.

But it’s enough for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Companion Song: "Be Still" by The Killers
> 
> \---
> 
> Whoops another long chapter, sorry... Hopefully it's okay though??!? It's for sure an important Reader-chan-centric chapter. 
> 
> As always, this chapter's core stayed the same but a lot was shifted around as wrote. I had a long convo with someone recently about "gifted kids" and thought about it a lot as I wrote this chapter. The person I was talking with it considered gifted (he's INCREDIBLY talented and SO so smart), and so things just seem to come naturally to him when he applies himself. I, on the other hand, am not gifted lol, so it was very interesting to hear his perspective on things and to chat about how we have different approaches to learning and doing things. I relate a lot to this chapter because of it - the constant push to be considered good at something and the frustration of being overshadowed constantly, but learning to keep trying even if nothing ever comes of it. The overwhelmingness of being an underwhelming human, but still trying to persevere with hard work.
> 
> LOL wow how brooding of me. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Take good care, and see you all in the next one xoxoxo


	12. Layers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“No one is ever only one thing. Inside one person there are so many different people, and quite often they're at war with each other, and sometimes one of them is winning, and sometimes another. We're all so hard to understand, aren't we?”_ – Louis de Bernières, _So Much Life Left Over_

When the little lucky cat figurine attached to your school bag gets crunched underfoot for the third time that day, you know that it’s probably not much longer for the world. And sure enough, when Momo takes a step back from the mezzanine railing to review the photo she just took, its body goes rolling off, leaving a solemn white head attached to a chain staring at you with soulless eyes. “Well, there goes all my luck,” you tell your friend with a dry smirk, even though that figurine brought nothing but bad luck during Dance Camp.

Momo looks down, blinking. “Ah, sorry (Name)-chan. I didn’t even see your bag there; I was too in the zone trying to get this shot.” She leans down to show you the picture—it’s Hanamaki, face contorted with concentration as he jumps high to (successfully) block a shot from Dead Eyes Kunimi. “Sorry about that,” she states again apologetically. “I’ll get you a new one, promise.”

“No worries. Just don’t go to that cursed shrine again,” you comment, which causes the brunette to laugh. You tilt your head at her curiously. “So I know you’re hoping to use some of these pictures for your portfolio,” you start, “but wouldn’t they turn out a bit better if the guys were in their uniforms? Like at a game or something?” Momo had recently gotten permission from Coach Irihata to photograph the team (under the condition that she’s discreet and doesn’t interrupt practice), so she’s been joining you at the tail end of Wednesday practices for the past few weeks. As nice as it is to have her company, you’ve also been wondering why she doesn’t just wait for the start of the Interhigh Qualifiers in two weeks’ time, when the boys will be looking all professional and matching in their uniforms as they make their way to the top—

“They probably would look better,” answers Momo with a sigh, sliding down the wall to sit next to you, “but unfortunately for me, photography is not allowed in the arena—unless, of course, you’re a professional sports photographer. Do you remember Gima-kun?”

“Who?”

“My neighbor. You know, we went to watch his game at Prelims—the libero—”

Ah, yes, IKEA Team’s Neighbor Libero with the painfully obvious crush. How could you forget? “What about him?” you ask.

“His big brother is one of the sports photographers they hire to do these sort of events. He was the one who photographed the finals when we played against Shiratorizawa in June, and I’m sure he’ll be at the upcoming Qualifiers, too. Man, you should _see_ some of his shots,” she says, tone full of admiration. “I’m so jealous. If I could photograph like that I would be a shoe-in for Shadai, or even _Zokei_ —”

You laugh slightly, murmuring, “Momo-chan, I think you already have a good shot. Especially considering you won, oh I don’t know—a _national_ photography competition.”

“Meh,” says Momo with a grin, which causes you to roll your eyes good-naturedly. You lean over, watching as she flits through her camera roll quickly to look at all the shots she’s gotten so far. You both jump a bit in shock when Mad Dog’s angry, scowling face pops up onto the screen, the glare he’s sending the camera sending a small shiver down your spine.

(“You know, not sure why… but he reminds me of a tanuki. Or a honey badger,” Momo whispers to you, as if the irate second year in question can hear you all the way from down on the court.

“He’s _definitely_ more like a mad dog,” you whisper back, “hence the nickname _Mad Dog_.”

“I thought that was more to do with his real name? What is it again? Kyo-something…”

“No clue.” Oikawa’s only referred to him as “Mad Dog” and you roll with it, considering how appropriate the name has shown to be.)

“Do you think you’re going to use any of these?” you ask your friend. With the exception of Mad Dog’s portrait, she has some really good photos that seem to fit her portfolio theme. (Though now that you think about it, since she’s going for authenticity maybe she _should_ use his picture, considering that anger sure seems real…)

The brunette shrugs, though she looks hopeful. She begins to chatter. “I’ll have to review what I’ve got a bit more thoroughly, but yeah, I’d like to. Kindaichi-kun has already preemptively given me the OK to use pictures of him, but I’m not sure if I will. To be honest, his hair kind of throws me off. Not the most aesthetically-pleasing hairstyle to look at, huh? Too oniony, peeling back layer after layer…” Momo pushes her bangs straight up, a poor imitation of the tall first year’s hairstyle.

(“I mean, _he_ probably finds it aesthetically pleasing,” you argue for Kindaichi, though you find yourself smirking. Momo’s being kind of petty right now, but at the same time you get it.

“You can’t trust a sixteen-year-old boy’s judgement for anything, _especially_ when it comes to personal taste,” your friend states, wagging her finger at you. “He should really consider shaving the sides, get a nice fade…”

“Maybe he will in the future, like when he’s in university.”

“Or maybe we should intervene now for the sake of his love life…”

 _Does_ Kindaichi have a love life? Beats you. “You can start giving tips on romance when you have success in your _own_ love life, Momo-chan,” you state, grinning when Momo looks at you in horror.

“(Name)-chan, so cruel! But _touché_!”)

Speaking of romance—or, you suppose, more speaking of superficial, fangirl crushes—Momo suddenly gives a large smile when she flips to the next photo, mushy grin already telling you who, exactly, she’s looking at even before you see the picture yourself. “You know, I got some _really_ good ones of Oikawa-kun,” she says, showing you her camera. Your partner pops on the screen, face set with a sure grin and confident glean in his eye as he tosses the ball upward for an attack. “He has such a handsome smile~” she sighs, leaning her head on your shoulder dramatically.

And he really does—but you’re not going to admit that out-loud.

Momo continues, still lounging lazily on you. “I just don’t know which one of him I’d want to use,” she admits, pouting slightly. “All the photos all just _too_ good; and they’re all super different! Oikawa-kun has lots of expressions. I don’t want to have to choose~”

You stay quiet as you watch her continue to scroll through her roll, eyes scanning for the “lots of expressions” Momo has noted. There are indeed quite a variety from the captain: in one photo he’s staring at the ball, eyes sharp and serious as he calculates his next move; in another, his lips are turned downward in a disapproving frown. The third photo is more silly, with him whining as he holds his side (probably from Iwaizumi having punched him, if you’d have to guess), and the fourth is just plain ridiculous, with him sticking out his tongue and posing with a peace sign as he takes a selfie— _Seriously, what’s up with him and selfies?_ you wonder. The penultimate picture makes you roll your eyes—he’s smiling charmingly at some of your fellow spectators in the mezzanine—and then your smirk becomes a bit softer at the final one. Though Oikawa is the centerpiece, the last picture features the third year quartet, grinning and chattering with one another during break. There’s a relaxed air about all subjects in the photo, a strong sense of friendship and familiarity evoking from the still shot.

“That last one’s my personal favorite,” Momo tells you with a grin.

You hum in consideration at her comment, but something curious has caught your eye. “Can I see your camera?” you ask her. “Just want to look at something.”

Momo hesitantly hands you her equipment after she makes you promise not to delete anything, showing you how to move between photos when you ask. She props her chin on your shoulder, quietly observing as you flit between the last two photos a few times. “What are we looking at?” she questions curiously.

You don’t respond, too wrapped up in your own thoughts as you look at the two pictures, eyes trained on Oikawa. It’s interesting—he has the _exact_ same smile on in both shots, but the expressions are completely different. At first you can’t really pinpoint why, exactly, you feel like this. But as you observe further, staring into those still, brown eyes, watching the subtleties in guise shift between the pictures, you’re suddenly reminded of many moments over the past few months where you’ve seen this type of behavior from the volleyball captain. And then it clicks.

Momo said that Oikawa has lots of expressions, and she’s not wrong. But what Momo’s captured on film is not just his many expressions—it’s his many _faces_ , the many sides of his multifaceted personality.

You begin to now flip through all of the photos of Oikawa, mind drifting off into thought. You remember how you used to feel so uncertain, not entirely sure to what make of him and his weird dichotomy in personality. But now, as your relationship has grown from (misplaced) dislike to general ambivalence to now, with mutual understanding… Well, those sides— _all_ those sides—don’t seem as foreign anymore. And no longer is it just a dichotomy. Now there’s the snarky; the serious; the relaxed; the hardworking; the petty; the determined; the annoying and the annoyed…

It’s all just _Oikawa_ to you—a comfortable, complex, layered presence that you’ve found more in common with than you would have ever imagined.

That’s pretty astounding from where you were just six months before.

_Six months._

That thought sends you reeling a bit, because has it already _really_ been that long since you first started working with Oikawa?

A hand comes to wave in front of your face. “You’re doing it again,” Momo states, pulling you from your thoughts. She’s frowning at you, gray eyes unimpressed. “You should try to stay on Earth instead of floating to Planet (Name) if you don’t want to be considered the Princess of Brooding and Internal, Deep Monologue.”

“Honestly, Momo-chan,” you say, handing back her camera, “is that supposed to be an insult or not? I really can’t tell…”

“Keeping it vague on purpose,” your friend tells you with a wink. She looks back at her camera. “So what were we searching for? Or were we looking at all the pictures of Oikawa-kun just because he’s super handsome~?”

You roll your eyes, though there’s a small smile on your face. “You have some really good shots,” you state, ignoring her comment. “Really hope you use that last one, though. That one’s my favorite, too.”

* * *

You’re in the middle of crunching numbers for your imaginary Budget Project apartment when your phone chimes a few times with text notifications.

 **Sato Momo:** _hey youre with oikawakun rn right  
_**Sato Momo:** _LUCKY btw  
_**Sato Momo:** _can you get permission for me to use some of his photos for my portfolio? i’m reviewing the footage now and want to get the ok before i start edits  
_**Sato Momo:** _was going to ask after vbc but you all left before i could get away from kindaichikun ╥_ _﹏╥  
_**Sato Momo:** _he like rlly rlly wants to be included  
_**Sato Momo:** _are all first years like this??_

“Someone sure is popular~” Oikawa calls. He’s leaning against the side of your bed, on his phone as he frequently is. He doesn’t bother to look up from his screen as he asks, “Is it your boyfriend, the ball dropper from Prelims?”

“Stop,” you say flatly, rolling your eyes when Oikawa gives you an airy smirk. “It’s Momo-chan. She wants to know if you’re okay with her using your pictures in her portfolio.”

“Sure thing,” the captain says, then adds, “as long as they make me look good.”

“I’ll be sure to pass along the sentiment,” you mutter, though you have no intention of doing so. You tap a response to Momo.

 **You:** _he says go for it  
_**Sato Momo:** _YAY!_

Your friend begins to spam your chat with the same sticker of a panda with hearts surrounding its head.

 **Sato Momo:** _so EXCITED_ Ｏ(≧▽≦)Ｏ  
**Sato Momo:** _now to figure out which one to use… so many expressions!!_

That last comment makes you purse your lips. You type a quick “good luck” to your friend and then look over once again to your partner, watching quietly. He still pays you no mind as he lounges about lazily, eyes glazed over in boredom as he browses through social media or whatever he does. You’re not entirely sure why you suddenly feel the urge to bring up what’s on your mind, but you do so regardless, voice ringing in the air. “You have a lot of faces, don’t you?” you ask. It’s a simple yet deceptively complex question.

That catches Oikawa’s attention. He stiffens just the slightest before flitting his gaze to you, eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he tells you.

“I don’t believe that,” you respond, watching as he frowns.

Oikawa stares at you a bit longer before humming, turning off his phone and coming to sit beside you at your coffee table. One hand props his cheek up while he leans towards you, eyes measured. “Elaborate for me then, if you will,” he murmurs. His voice is cool, almost bored-sounding—but you know it’s anything but. You feel a slight chill run down your spine, and suddenly your face feels a little hot.

You brush off the sudden, weird feeling, waving your hand in his direction. The words tumble out without much thought, bubbling and quick. “On the outside,” you start, “you like to portray that you’re this laid-back, easy-going, smooth-talking handsome guy who most girls swoon over—”  
  


_(“I heard that you nailed Ushiwaka in the face with a volleyball. Good work~” he compliments with a lopsided grin. “If you ever want someone to really teach you the basics of volleyball, I’d be happy to be your coach. I can guarantee I’m a better teacher than him~”_

_Momo gives a quivering “T-T-Thank you for the kindness, O-Oikawa-kun! That’s so generous of you!” Her nails are digging into your arm now, causing you to hiss lightly. Your small protests fall dead—you’re sure she can’t hear you with all of that steam blowing out of her ears.)  
  
_

“Wow, what praise—”

“—even though it’s actually annoying—”

“Wha—(Name)-chan, that’s mean—!”

“—but on the inside you have this nasty, annoying side that that comes out whenever you want to piss off Iwaizumi-kun, though I’d argue you do it just because you find it funny, _not_ because you actually want to make him angry—”  
  


_(“Just a few, Oikawa.”_

_“Okay, Mom~” replies the brunette. He makes a small noise of surprise when a ball flies past his head, missing him by mere inches._

_“Ahahaha, Iwa-chan, your aim is not as good as it was bef—”)  
  
_

Oikawa looks the tiniest bit taken aback, eyebrows turned upward. “(Name)-chaaaan~” he begins to whine, but you cut him off yet again, mind recalling more scenarios of Oikawa’s multifaceted personality the more you talk.

“There’s a _really_ petty and immature side to you—”  
  


_(“She has a type,” you tell him, shrugging._

_“You mean the ugly, brooding type?”_

_"_ _Ushi-kun isn’t ugly.”_

_“Maybe not, but his personality for sure doesn’t help.”)  
  
_

“—and you also make all these weird, annoying, completely unnecessary comments—”  
  


_(“If you keep making that face, you’ll permanently look angry like Iwa-chan, (Name)-chan~”)  
  
_

Oikawa speaks before you can continue. “Are the comments _really_ unnecessary, or is that just your perception—?” he starts, but then stops himself when you point a finger at him, completely not having heard his backhanded quip.

“Also, you’re _weird_!” you state, a little bit louder and more resolutely than probably necessary. “Like what’s up with the interest in aliens and the selfies all the time?”

Oikawa reels back, hand on his heart. “You’re so mean, (Name)-chan~!”

“And this! There’s also this fake ‘I’m-so-hurt-by-your-words’ thing that you constantly do!”

“Your words _are_ hurtful!” he whines.

You roll your eyes, though just like with Oikawa’s accusation, there is no real nastiness or spite behind any of it. You open your mouth to continue before pausing quickly, the next words dancing on the tip of your tongue. You debate with yourself for a split second about whether or not you should speak the rest of your piece… but then decide that _well_ , you’ve already been “hurtful” and “mean” according to Oikawa, so might as well balance the scales.

So you speak, the words much more soft and contemplative than before. “That being said,” you murmur, eyes flitting to his, “there’s that side of you that’s really serious, really hard-working… really determined.”  
  


_(“It’s not good enough.”_

_“But you’re still trying.”_

_“I am still trying.”)  
  
_

An admirable, inspiring side.

You catch the surprise that flickers across Oikawa’s face before he smothers it almost as quickly as it arrives, expertly training his features into a neutral expression. He says nothing, merely watching you with contemplative, guarded eyes. So you continue, tiny smile flitting up onto your lips as you go on. “You’re also adaptive and supportive with your team, and they rely on you as much as you rely on them.”  
  


_(“But his capabilities go beyond that. I don’t really understand all of it,” Momo admits, shrugging, “but from what I’ve seen, he has… hmm, well, he’s found the perfect blend of leading his teammates—pushing their capabilities, using them exactly as he wants—and molding himself to his teammates’ wants and needs—that is, knowing exactly what kind of tosses they want and the ones they’ll be most successful with, knowing who to toss to, both for strategic purposes and morale…”)  
  
_

A trustworthy, serving side.

“And there’s also…” But you stop yourself, letting the words fall and trail away as you realize you were going to say something Oikawa might not like.

There’s another side to him that you like. It’s a side rarely shown, one that he hates, one that he tries to hide as much as possible.

You know he feels like this because you have this side too, and it’s as terrifyingly fragile as glass.  
  


_(_ _“What drives me to keep me going, huh? Well, obviously I want to be the best and pummel my enemies~” Oikawa says airily. He looks up at the darkening sky, quickly sobering up. “But there’s more to it than that._

_“There’s always going to be some prodigy ahead of you,” he tells you, scowling. “And no matter what you do, their God-given abilities, talents, gifts, whatever you want to call it—they are always going to make it so that they have an advantage. When you take one step, it’s like they take two. It’s disgusting, really._

_“So what do you do? Do you let it break you, or do you use it as momentum to keep pushing, keep working harder?_

_“Maybe it’s fruitless in the end, who knows?” Oikawa shrugs. “But even if it is, it’s you who gets to decide at the end of the day if it was worth it or not. No one else._

_"_ _Surround yourself with the right people, and keep fighting. Just because you’re up against geniuses and strong adversaries doesn’t mean that you still can’t be the best. After all, talent is something you bloom.”)_

  
A vulnerable side.

It’s nice, really… and you find that you honestly wish he showed it more.

“So yeah,” you conclude, pulling from your thoughts. “lots of faces. Lots of layers.” A small smirk makes its way up to your face as you recall Momo mere hours before, pulling her hair up in imitation of Kindaichi. _Lots of layers, indeed._

Oikawa stares at you for a very long time, dark eyes calculating. You can’t tell what he’s thinking in the slightest, and the intense scrutinization makes you fidgety, a bit nervous. Finally the captain smirks, handsome grin tinged with slightly vexed amusement. “So you think you’ve got me figured out, huh~?” he asks, leaning his cheek on his palm again. “Well the same could be said for you, you know—”

You blink at his words. “Hey, wait—”

“Eh~? What’s this? You don’t want me to dissect your _layered_ personality like you did mine?”

“You told me to elaborate, so I did!” you protest, cheeks feeling warm. Oikawa’s grin gets even wider.

“I guess I did, huh? Well I think it’s only fair that I do yours now—”

“H-Hold up, I didn’t say—”

“Well for starters, you’re stubborn—”

As _fair_ as he thinks it may be, you really don’t want him to pick you apart—you’re not ready for that. So your mind begins to race a bit, brain trying to think of ways to quiet him; and you don’t know why—maybe it’s because it’s late at night, or maybe because you only got a few hours of sleep last night, who knows—but suddenly you get an idea that’s very bold and a bit out-of-character for you. And because you can’t think of anything else, you decide to go with it, throwing caution to the wind.

Hands come up, reaching towards Oikawa, and you lean into him.

* * *

When you start to come close—closer than you’ve ever been before—a few things happen to Oikawa: 1) he stiffens in surprise at your boldness; 2) any clear, articulated argument on your character he was planning on presenting completely flies out of his mind; and 3) he is suddenly, unexplainably, very hot.

He’s not sure what you’re doing, what’s going on in your mind. You’ve always been so careful around him, always cautious. At first it _really_ rubbed him the wrong way—but now that he knows you a bit more, now that he understands you just a tiny bit better… well, he guesses it’s not the worst.

It’s _annoying_ , for sure. You’re very a heedful person, very on guard. You’re quick to throw those walls up, quick to shut down or to steer the subject away when you don’t want to talk about things. You’re also hesitant, slow to trust and to let others in. But Oikawa can’t complain about being frustrated by it without being a hypocrite himself—after all, he’s the exact same.

But right now, with you close enough that he feels the heat radiating from your body… Well, right now he feels none of that caution from you. There’s no hesitation, no walls up. In fact, you seem relaxed, eyes wide and open and lacking any sort of guard normally present.

And Oikawa finds that he quite likes it.

So he leans forward himself as well—whether it’s conscious or not, he doesn’t know—feeling the hairs on his arms stand up a little when your fingertips brush against his cheeks.

But then your hand flies up to his hair, pushing his bangs straight up as the other reaches for the two hair ties around your wrist—and whatever weird spell Oikawa felt himself falling under is completely broken.

“H-Hey, what are you doing?” The captain suddenly leans back, pulling away from you. In response you just lean forward more, dangerously close to toppling over onto him. He’s not sure you’ve even noticed.

“Stay still,” you order, eyes glued to his hair. You once again reach out. Oikawa tries to grab your wrists to stop you, but you just bat him away, mouth turned downward into an insistent frown. He continues to struggle with you, albeit half-heartedly.

“Stop trying to ruin my hair!”

“Like you _do_ anything to it,” you shoot back. “It’s just a bunch of cowlicks everywhere!”

“Cowli—take that back, (Name)-chan! My hairstyle is _deliberate_ , it’s not just random _cowlicks_ —”

You laugh suddenly, a sweet chime of a sound. Your eyes flit down to his for a split second—you’re _so close_ —and your lips curl into a smile. “I’m just kidding,” you state, and your breath fans across his face.

This time when you reach up again to mess with his hair, Oikawa lets you. Why, he’s not sure. He just… does.

The setter watches you as you work, ignoring the way his heart beats just a bit quicker in his chest, ignoring the way his neck suddenly feels a little hot and itchy. Your face scrunches up in concentration, lips pursing ever-so-slightly as your nimble hands work to ruin his well-kempt hair. “You remind me of an onion,” you explain as you work, the statement making Oikawa balk. Your voice is gentle, thoughtful. “Lots of layers. When you peel back one, another’s right there, and then another, and another… It seems unending.”

“Does that bother you?” Oikawa asks quietly, the words coming out before he even realize what he’s asking.

You pause, once again shifting to look at him. Your eyes are clear, bright and contemplative. They’re very vibrant in color, Oikawa notes. Have they always been like that?

And then you speak, tone matching his own. “No, it doesn’t,” you answer, and he can tell you’re being honest. “Not anymore, at least. Now it almost feels…”

You trail off, but he hears the unspoken word. _Comfortable._

…Huh.

Oikawa doesn’t get any time to think about it further, though, for then you pull back with a grin, deliberately shifting the mood. “There we go, much better,” you announce. “Kindaichi-kun 2.0.”

The captain is wondering what, exactly, that means; but then when you hand him a hand mirror so he can look, he really wishes he hadn’t.

You’ve pulled his bangs back into a small ponytail that sticks straight up, the fringe wild and disorganized and absolutely horrendous. Oikawa jolts. “My hair! What _is_ this?”

He hears you start to laugh. When he looks up in disbelief, you’re grinning widely, eyes flickering with amusement. “Onion Prince, of course. You’re so _beautiful_ ,” you lie, because there’s absolutely _nothing_ cute about this whatsoever.

With a growl, Oikawa pulls the hair ties out, eyes narrowed as he reaches towards you. Whatever glee you had before suddenly fades into wariness, and then as he approaches more you lean back, saying, “Hey—what are you—”

“My turn—”

“I never said you cou—”

“Too bad. You ruined my hair so now I’m returning the favor—”

Unlike Oikawa, you fight back the whole time, making this whole ordeal very difficult and much more of a pain than it should be—but in the end, the captain ends up succeeding. He pulls back with a shit-eating grin, admiring his work. “Much better!” he announces mockingly, quoting your previous words.

The brunette hands you your mirror back, watching in delight as your face shifts when you look at your reflection. What started out as annoyance quickly melds into shock as you view the two lopsided, messy buns on your head; the surprise then morphs into horror, and finally back to irritation when you turn to glare at him, cheeks an adorable bright red. “Wha—What _is_ this?”

“Space Princess, duh,” Oikawa answers, smirking. “Look how cute you are~”

You scoff, rolling your eyes in exasperation even though he’s said nothing but the truth. “This looks absolutely _nothing_ like Sailor Moon—”

You’re looking back into the hand mirror when Oikawa snaps the selfie, him posing with a grin and a peace sign and you in the background looking like a disorganized mess. It’s a great picture of himself, Oikawa finds. You, not so much… but looking at your exasperated, baffled form in the photo makes a crooked grin flit up onto the captain’s face nonetheless. He decides to save this selfie, thinking of the other one with you that he still has tucked away. “Yay! This one will be called ‘Space Princess, ready to be taken back to her homeland!’”

Oikawa laughs when you toss your pencil at his chest, and he reaches over to tug at the poorly-shaped buns. As you once again swat at his hands with a scowl that doesn’t reflect in your eyes, he’s suddenly struck by how _easy_ it feels to be around you. With both of your guards down, everything feels lighthearted, effortless, almost…

_Comfortable._

It’s nice, really.

Oikawa finds himself smiling a bit wider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a dumb, relatively light-hearted silly chapter before shit begins to hit the fan soon :'D uh-oh
> 
> Onion Prince and Space Princess, what a combo. also poor kindaichi being kind of made fun of, but really that hair i-
> 
> Fun fact: Layers was the original title of this whole work!
> 
> Hope you enjoy and have a lovely day wherever you are! xoxo


	13. Protagonists of the Monster Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I will prepare and some day my chance will come.”_ – Abraham Lincoln

The latter half of October brings pleasant afternoons, cool nights, and constant hustling for everyone.

Family-wise, your parents are practically invisible—either they are both off on long, international business trips, or they are holed away sleeping, desperately trying to fix their bodies’ poor Circadian rhythms (which isn’t super effective, as being transported to almost every time zone in the world _really_ messes up someone’s sense of time and sleep schedule). Umeko is out of the house more—at first it was in preparation for the Intercollegiate Prelims, but now post-competition she’s just out drinking in celebration, as she qualified for the Nationals that are occurring early in the new year. You’re completely unsurprised by this turn of events, considering how smooth and clean her routine—the same one she was working on when you and Momo visited—was at the competition. Even Coach Takai, whom you were surprised to bump into at the event, couldn’t deny that the choreography was excellent.  
  


(After exchanging very awkward greetings—or at least it was awkward on your part—your coach decided to sit by you, which left you feeling very tense and even more awkward. After the Feeling of Awkwardness had not subsided after twenty minutes of silence, your brain—for some absurd reason—decided to try to break the ice with bringing up Takai’s least favorite subject: Umeko.

“ _Oneesan_ started working on this last month,” you commented when your sister began to perform, footwork precise and clear despite the complexity. You immediately cringed internally, suddenly realizing _who_ , exactly, you were talking to.

Takai’s souring mood was palpable. He was silent for a long while before snorting, muttering, “ _Feh_. I hate that it’s good. Damn _Umeboshi_ s.”)

  
Among your friends Fumiko always declines to hangout (“Cram school’s kept me busy,” she explains, but you don’t believe her—when has she actually ever _tried_?); Haruto is off in Lalaland during dance practice, having checked out a _long_ time ago even though now you’re actually putting in effort; and Momo, despite her best attempts to still be in contact with you daily, has found that her self-imposed portfolio challenge is much more time-consuming than expected. And in typical Momo fashion, during the times you _do_ get to hang out with her, the topic almost always finds itself back to the inevitable subject of volleyball—specifically, the upcoming tournament.

Ah yes, the Spring Interhigh Qualifiers. They’ve been on your mind a bit, too, if you’re honest. Not a crazy amount, but well… It’s kind of hard for it not to be when you’re frequently around the Aoba Johsai Boys’ Volleyball Team Captain.

Oikawa has been insisting that he’s fine, that everything is fine and dandy, carry on carry on, what you’re worried about me I’m fine don’t worry~. But based on your keen observance, he is not, in fact, as fine as he so easily portrays. Sure, he’s functioning and alive and still able to smoothly incorporate snarky quips into every conversation, but the subtle hints of weariness and fatigue—symptoms you’re unfortunately well acquainted with—lie there just below the surface, cleverly hidden to the unknowing eye. The tiniest of dark circles are forming just beneath those rich, hazelnut eyes, a sign of many restless nights. He claims that he’s been getting plenty of sleep—“(Name)-chan, do I need to start calling you Mom, too~?” he queries annoyingly when you ask—but you know that he’s lying when he begins to steal sips of your coffee during your meetings and during the occasional few times the two of you chat in the morning before class. Considering Oikawa has made the blasphemous claim before that coffee is bad, you know you have every right to call him out for hypocrisy… but you let it slide for now.

The brunette also seems more tense, more lost in thought. He’s like this in class when you occasionally glance over, but it’s very apparent outside of school, too, with the way his answers sometimes don’t quite seem to be exactly related to whatever you’re talking about, and how he doesn’t quite provide any sort of useful, intellectual commentary during your meetings. This is the type of behavior you were hoping to avoid from a partner… but, well… you let this slide for now, too.

You’ve told Oikawa multiple times that you’re fine with holding off on working on your project until after the Fated Qualifier Weekend, but for some reason he still maintains that you meet. He even insists on it the eve before the Qualifiers, so meet you do. It’s at this rendezvous that you’re running some ideas by him when you look up and, after realizing that his eyes are locked on the computer screen but they’re glazed over in distant thought, snap your fingers lightly at him with a slight frown.

The action catches the captain’s attention; he blinks, focus returning back to the now, and slides his eyes to you. “Yes?” he asks, lazy smile slipping up onto his face as if he wasn’t just completely spaced out.

“You’ve been staring at nothing for the past five minutes,” you tell him, which causes the setter to hum in consideration. The corners of your lips quirk upward with dry humor. “You can’t tell me that hearing me list various insurance quotes isn’t riveting stuff.”

“Sorry, sorry~” Oikawa says. He props his chin up with his palm, gazing at you with half-lidded eyes. “I’m all ears. Let’s discuss my favorite subject—earthquake insurance claims.”

You smirk at the response but sober but quickly after, understanding his distraction. “Qualifiers on your mind?”

You’re expecting some smarmy response—something like “ _No,_ what made you think that?”—but instead your partner sighs softly, matching your own serious mood. “Hard not to be,” he mumbles, then adds, “considering, you know… it’s kind of tomorrow.”

Ah, there it is—the tiniest bit of unnecessary snark. Standard Oikawa. “You’re worried?” you ask.

He scoffs. “Hardly.”

“Scared?”

“Nothing to be scared of.”

“Nervous?”

“The good kind of nervous.”

“Do you want to cry?”

Oikawa blinks, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “What? No.”

You mimic his pose, placing your chin in your palm. “What about throw up?”

Oikawa looks offended. “Who do you take me for? I’m not some weakling like Chibi-chan.”

“I haven’t a clue who that is,” you say, “but since you’re insulting others, I know that means you’re good to go.”

“Heh, what’s this~? You were concerned about me?” His tone is a mix of light teasing and subtle irritation, also reflected in that dumb smirk he’s giving you.

“Hardly.”

The grin widens even further. “Just admit it.”

“Nothing to admit,” you say seriously, though you’re not even sure of the validity of your statement.

Oikawa chuckles lightly but doesn’t respond, so you once again go back to the riveting insurance claims tabbed on the computer. There’s one that sounds particularly scammy and you’re squinting at it with skeptical eyes when Oikawa speaks again. “Thanks for your non-concern,” he starts, and you look at him sidelong. He’s staring at the screen again, eyes taking that slightly glazed quality you’ve been seeing for so many weeks. “I’m fine. Just have a lot on my mind.”

It’s understandable. After all, even from a surface level perspective, he’s a third year _and_ the captain; both come with an innate, probably insurmountable sense of responsibility to the team. But under the surface, with him harboring those intense feelings of drive and rivalry… Well…

Your next words are spontaneous, born out of the sudden urge to encourage and uplift Oikawa. It’s a strange and completely unnecessary urge, but over the past half year you’ve found that some things just don’t need to have an explanation for being, don’t need a rationale to exist.

And you’re learning that that’s okay.

“Let’s make a bet.”

Oikawa blinks. “Huh?”

“Let’s make a bet,” you repeat. “After all this is over, we’re going to dinner. Qualify for Nationals, and it’ll be my treat. But if you end up sucking and losing, you pay.” A challenging grin snakes its way up to your face. “There’s a new fancy restaurant downtown that I’ve been _itching_ to go to. How do you feel about deep-fried dishes?”

As you talk, you see Oikawa’s eyes flickering as he processes your words. He’s wearing a very vague expression—why, you’re not sure, as it’s just a dumb, light-hearted bet that you’re entirely prepared to lose—and it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking. He doesn’t allow room for any scrutinization as he immediately and smoothly answers, “ _Agemono_? I’m sick of them. Iwa-chan always wants to go for _agedashi tofu_ whenever we go eat. I’m tired of seeing fried tofu. You know, I think he has an unhealthy obsession… maybe we should intervene.”

Your grin widens. “Great, so when we go to this place I’ll be sure to order only _agedas_ —”

“I wouldn’t be making plans quite yet, Princess,” interrupts Oikawa with a charming smirk, “because we won’t be going to your restaurant.”

…Well… seems like now Momo’s not the only one who utilizes that dumb nickname for you. Of course it’s always used in a teasing manner, never serious—and now’s not an exception. But even though you roll your eyes and sigh lightly, you still find yourself sitting just a bit taller nonetheless.

You reach forward, sticking a pinkie out. “Then make sure you don’t drop the ball,” you say, face feigning seriousness that you know he can see right through.

Oikawa leans over to wrap his own pinkie around yours, rough skin warm against your own. He locks eyes with you, amused. “Don’t worry—I’m not your little ball-dropping boyfriend. Tell me, have you had your first date yet?”

“Hmmm, since you apparently have a strong dislike for _agedashi tofu_ and other _agemono_ —you’re wrong, by the way—maybe I should change my bit of the bet so that you have to pay for my first date with him rather than—”

Oikawa cuts you off with a laugh, the chuckle light and carefree. It’s been a while since you’ve heard him sound so relaxed, and you find your smirk softening just the slightest. He releases your pinkie with a squeeze and playful wink. The setter then quickly hijacks the computer, switching the screen over from scammy insurance quotes to recordings of other teams’ past games, something you’ve noticed him watching a lot recently. He’s apparently decided that the two of you are done for the night.

You sigh lightly—as predicted would happen, productivity was low and is now nonexistent—but you let it slide like you’ve been doing for so many things recently. You quietly move onto crunching some numbers on paper by yourself, the sounds and squeaks of the recorded game becoming a wash of white noise in the distance. After a few moments you slide your gaze to your partner, watching him view the match with rapt attention, eyes sharp and astute as he analyzes and picks apart and strategizes. Your mind begins to wander.

Tomorrow is the beginning of an end, the start of an important chapter of a book that’s still being written. You’ve only been a side character in Oikawa’s story for a short period of time, but you can tell—can feel, can empathize—how long this road has been, filled with frustration and _not good enough_ s and looming shadows of geniuses. Tomorrow starts the culmination of hard work, of trust built between teammates for months—if not years—on end. Tomorrow starts the path to success.

You know you’re being naïve. You know it’s like that for every Monster Team competing with other Monsters for that single, precious spot to an even bigger, more intense Monster Ball. Anything remotely competitive is always a song of winners and losers, one triumphant chorus ringing over the tragic laments of hundreds of others. You know only one team can rise above.

But… well… to you, the boys of Aoba Johsai’s volleyball team—your team—are the protagonists of the Monster Ball. And the heroes always find ways to prevail.

A small smile slips its way up onto your face, tiny and unnoticed by your distracted partner. You go back to your sheet, letting a comfortable silence wrap around the two of you.

You’re excited for them. For all of the team, of course, but Oikawa especially—for once he steps onto that court, you’re sure that all of the secret, vehemently-hated insecurity and frustration will just act as fuel, propelling him forward to success.

They will be just fine.

* * *

The next day you’re eating lunch with Momo when your phone dings with a message.

“Ah,” you say, finishing your bite as you read the text with a small smile, “looks like we’re moving onto the next round.”

Momo blinks at you, tilting her head curiously. “‘We’, like the Dance Club? Already? Did I get my dates wrong? I thought the Fall Prefectural was in like a week…”

“Ah, no, not that ‘we’,” you correct sheepishly, “I meant the volleyball team.”

Momo freezes mid-chew, mouth hanging open slightly as she blinks at you, gray eyes wide. “Wait, what?” She quickly reaches for her phone, checking her messages. Her eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Wait, how do you—well, actually, first off, _YAY_! That’s great news, though not surprising; but secondly”—and here her gaze slips back to you, brows still pinched together—“how do you already know? _I_ haven’t even gotten any updates, and I’m the one with sources on the team—”

In response, you show her your phone, where a single LINE text flashes on the screen:

 **The Great Oikawa-san:** _won’t be at school tomorrow either. Make sure you take good notes in class for me~_

Momo leans forward slightly to read the text. “‘The Great Oikawa-san’…” she reads slowly.

“Yeah, ignore that. He stole my phone when I wasn’t looking and changed his contact name recently. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing it bothers me by changing it back.”

“I didn’t know you were on texting terms,” your friend says, leaning back into her chair. Her eyes flash, the gray sharp and steel-like. “How lucky~”

“We’re not really…” you say, shrugging as you type a reply back to Oikawa ( _No promises_ , it says, though you—and him—know you’ll end up doing it anyway). “But thought I’d at least say good luck this morning, considering… well, you know. And you know what he texted back? A peace sign along with ‘Don’t need it.’ _Tsk_ , how cocky,” you tell your friend, rolling your eyes lightly though your lips quiver up in amusement.

You’re expecting the brunette to giggle or smile at your small story, but instead she just looks at you with an expression you really can’t pinpoint. You’re wondering if you’ve possibly said something wrong, but she doesn’t give you much time to process it before shifting the subject. “Well, how exciting we’re going ahead!” Momo says, and her expression swiftly becomes much more animated the more she chatters. “Are you going to the games tomorrow? I think we start playing our sets a little before school ends. I’m hoping to catch some of the Quarter Finals and then be there for the whole semifinal, provided that we make it that—Oh, Momo, don’t say such things, of _course_ we’re going to make it, don’t put those bad ideas out into the universe for the gods to hear—”

Momo shakes her head wildly, lightly hitting her cheeks as if trying to slap the negative thoughts away. You laugh at your friends antics but sober up a bit as you answer her question. “Can’t go,” you state, popping a bit of rice into your mouth. You feel a small wash of disappointment creep over you and you pinch your lips together slightly, trying to ignore the feeling. “I’ve got dance practice.”

“ _What_? On a Friday?” Momo queries, voice almost a bit accusatory.

“Unfortunately so,” you murmur, sighing lightly. With the Fall Prefecturals coming up so soon, Coach Takai had recently scheduled extra practices that were mandatory for all members, regardless of whether or not they were participating in the competition.

(Haruto, already upset about the fact he was forced to stay in Club until after Prefecturals, did not like this particular news. “What?” he asked loudly when Coach announced the extra practices last week. “Why does _everyone_ need to be there?”

“Because, Sakano,” answered Takai, who responded in equal parts salt, irritation, and chill, “constructive peer review is important. And since I know you won’t be providing _that_ , the least you can do is offer moral support.”

“He kind of has a point,” you whispered to your friend. “Besides, maybe we can learn stuff by just watching.”

Haruto gave you an incredulous look, one that clearly stated “Who are you?” When you smiled in dry amusement, he snorted, rolling his eyes. “Learn something— _bah_. You know I checked out a _long_ time ago,” he told you, and you couldn’t help but agree.)

“What about our café date?” Momo asks, eyes serious. Your lips quirk upward.

“I mean, sounds like you weren’t going to be there anyway…”

“Not the point, but touché,” says the brunette, even though it’s _exactly_ the point. She shifts the subject a bit, asking a question that catches you off-guard. “Does Oikawa-kun know you’re not going to be there?”

You blink, looking at your friend a bit funny. “I didn’t mention it,” you say, because it’s true. You hadn’t thought to bring it up, because why would you? Momo matches your expression and you suddenly feel a little defensive, so you continue, voice maybe a bit more prickly than necessary. “It’s not like he’d care either way. He’ll be a little too preoccupied, don’t you think?”

Momo shrugs. “Yeah, well… still. It’s always nice knowing you have support there.”

You snort. “Trust me, Momo-chan, he will have _plenty_ of people there cheering for him.” Also another truth—for even if you could be there, it’s not like Oikawa would notice _you_ , a single person, in a throng of loudly-cheering people.

Now your best friend frowns, obviously not happy with your words. “You shouldn’t act like you don’t care,” she tells you, tone laced with stern disappointment.

You sigh softly. It’s not that you don’t care—in fact, you find that you care quite a bit, more so than you thought you would. You want—and know—that the team will succeed, and you wish that you could be there to see it. In fact, you were even a bit upset when you went to write in the extra dance sessions into your planner, only to see that you already had “Volleyball National Qualifiers” written down for that weekend.

But it’s out of your control and nothing can be done. In addition, although you’re disappointed you can’t be there tomorrow, you know there’s still Saturday. So you soften a bit, reaching over to squeeze your friend’s hand with a gentle smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” you apologize. “I’ll be able to go—and I _want_ to go—to the final on Saturday.”

Momo looks at your linked hands, pausing in consideration. Finally she concedes, squeezing back. “Okay,” she says, returning your smile.

You pull your hand back, going back to your lunch. “That being said, I’m counting on you to cheer loud enough for the both of us tomorrow, okay?” A cheeky grin comes onto your face. “Be so loud that you disturb the other team.”

“You got it, Chief,” Momo answers, giving a small salute. She laughs, the sound infectious. You give a small giggle yourself, shaking your head. Your friend picks her chopsticks back up again, looking at you with a positive, cheerful expression. “I’m really excited for us to win,” she says. You find that you feel the same.

“We are the protagonists of this Monster Ball,” you murmur, smiling to yourself. “We’ll be just fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmmmmmmmm I have a feeling next chapter will be interesting ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> Chapter title inspired in part by Akaashi Keiji (ily) and also manga chapter 290's title. 
> 
> This was not proofread v well so sorry in advance for the mistakes! I don't like this chapter but hope you enjoy~ Hope everyone is taking good care of yourself and your loved ones. <3


	14. The Fruits of Our Labor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.”_ \- Winston Churchill

Friday starts off with heavy rain early in the morning, the dark, pregnant clouds overhead stretching for miles with no end in sight. You pass by only a handful of people on your way to school, their faces set in degrees of unhappiness at the weather. Ambient noises of nature are drowned out by the splashing of rainboots in water, by the incessant and heavy pitter-pattering of droplets on umbrellas, by cars bulldozing through large puddles. The world has taken on a slight sheen of monochrome, everything a bit duller amidst the wash of cold October rain pouring from above.

It’s all very ominous, you find, and a little unsettling. And although you’d never really peg yourself as superstitious, a sense of foreboding has risen up in your chest, one that refuses to leave no matter how hard you try to shake it off.

At school, homeroom seems quieter than normal—but you tell yourself that’s just because your popular partner is absent, so therefore the small entourage that always seems to be there before class is also away. At the thought you look over to Oikawa’s empty desk, smack-dab in the heart of everything. How appropriate for him to have been assigned the seat that’s in the middle of the classroom, the center of attention. Your lips quiver upward.

You hadn’t wished him good luck this morning. You thought about doing so, but as you pulled up your messages, fingers tapping out the short text, you remembered Momo’s odd comment from yesterday about being on _texting terms_ or whatever—so instead, you just shoved your phone back into your bag, the simple well-wishes remaining unsent. You feel the tiniest bit of guilt creep up, mixing with that incessant, uncomfortable foreboding feeling—but then you remember this is Oikawa you’re thinking about. He claims he doesn’t _need_ good luck… and, well… based on how hard you’ve seen him work (and you assume you’ve only just viewed a tiny fraction of the whole process), you also know and agree that he doesn’t need it.

(Plus you can just imagine the comeback he’d have in store for you. _“Wow, another message~?”_ you can practically hear him saying. _“(Name)-chan, why so concerned~? Must be on your mind a lot, huh~?”_

 _“You wish”_ would be your response.

_“Why would I wish for something that’s already reality~?”_

How insufferable, really. Typical Oikawa.)

In the afternoon the rain lets up just in time for dance, the air sticky and humid as you make your way across campus to change. Now that the sun’s back out, everything has shifted back to the ordinary vibrant hues of fall, daily sounds of life returning back to normal. The baseball team passes by you during their warmup jog; underclassmen chatter excitedly amongst one another about their plans for the weekend. The dark clouds are quickly fading into the distance, the sunny sky overtaking all, promising light and warmth and comfort. There’s even a small rainbow over the school’s main building.

Yet that foreboding feeling still prevails, and you find yourself frowning.

You quickly change and as you’re slowly meandering over to the studio, a few girls rush past you, faces flushed and eyebrows furrowed. You recognize them: they’re some of the volleyball spectators you frequently see at practice on Wednesdays. They pay you no mind as they run past, one of them looking at her phone with urgency. You catch a bit of the fleeting conversation.

“Shoot, we need to hurry—the bus will be here in two minutes—”

“Ugh, why is it _today_ of all days that we have cleaning duty? Everyone’s probably already at the stadium—what if we _miss_ the game—”

“They should’ve just started, we’ll be fine if we catch this bus—”

“We kind of rushed, do you think we’ll get in trouble for not cleaning properly—”

“I’d rather have another day of cleaning duty than miss Oikawa-kun play—we already had to miss yesterday—”

“What dedication,” you murmur quietly to yourself, smirking slightly as you watch them skirt around the corner. “See, Momo-chan? Told you he’d have _plenty_ of people there for him.”

That tiny pang of guilt comes back, poking at your heart. Oikawa’s face flits into your mind, a memory from just two days before. That crooked, smug grin of his curls up on one side as he reaches out to grasp your pinkie in his, eyes humored as he teases you about a boyfriend you don’t have, all notions of stress for the upcoming days temporarily erased from his visage. A tiny moment of peaceful distraction that you were able to provide.

You fish out your phone from your gym bag, going to your message thread with Oikawa. Like you told Momo, there’s not much there—most of it consists of very short conversations regarding the Budget Project, peppered occasionally with a snarky remark or some random emojis that were left on read (like your string of onion emojis from about a week before—oh wait, no, that’s right, Oikawa answered with a zoomed-in picture of Kindaichi’s hair). Your drafted text from this morning sits there, glaring at you; and as you look at the characters, you realize how silly you were being earlier. _So what_ if he doesn’t need your well wishes? _So what_ if he’ll have a snarky comeback?

( _So what_ if you’re sort of on texting terms?)

It’s the thought that counts, a quiet show of support from afar. So you press send despite the fact that it’s late, that he’s more than likely already in that Quarter Final match. You assume he’s not going to see it until later on, probably not until the semifinal has concluded. If that’s the case and he makes fun of you, you’ll just claim it’s preemptive encouragement for tomorrow’s final match.

_(“(Name)-chan cares, how cute~”)_

Your phone chimes just as you enter the studio, surprising you. You quickly look at the screen only to see it’s just Momo, and it continues to be just Momo as the tone goes off with each incoming text. Takai growls at you to turn it off (“No one needs to hear how _popular_ you are, (Surname)—you’re disrupting warmup!”) and so you flick the volume off, dropping your bag near the shoe cubby as you read.

 **Sato Momo:** _just got here  
_**Sato Momo:** _ugh the bus took so_  
**Sato Momo:** _freakin  
_**Sato Momo:** _LONG_ (T⌓T)

You smirk, typing.

 **You:** _did you take the 92 east? stops like a 5 min walk away from the gymnasium  
_**Sato Momo:** _NO i didnt!!!! didnt know oh man i couldve been here like 20min ago rip  
_**Sato Momo:** _but ANYWAY we’re on the 2nd set of q finals. 20-24 us  
_**Sato Momo:** _vs date tech btw  
_**Sato Momo:** _they got some tall ones  
_**Sato Momo:** _theres this guy w no eyebrows  
_**Sato Momo:** _and an angry birds guy  
_**Sato Momo:** _its not rlly a cute look but like we established cant really trust teenage boy judgement huh_

You roll your eyes, shaking your head at your friend’s antics. You’re about to respond (particularly to that Angry Birds comment— _???_ ) when another string of texts rolls in, as incessant as the first.

 **Sato Momo:** _WOW  
_**Sato Momo:** _iwaizumisan just SMASHED through basically a wall  
_**Sato Momo:** _went straight thru angry birds arms  
_**Sato Momo:** _oh thats the end of the set  
_**Sato Momo:** _dunno who won 1st one, one sec_

You’re responding with your own message ( _probably us_ ) when Momo starts back up again, confirming your prediction.

 **Sato Momo:** _IT WAS US  
_ **Sato Momo:** _WE WON YAYAYAY  
_ **Sato Momo:** _unsurprised tho hehehe  
_ **Sato Momo:** _man wish id thought about the 92. couldve been here @ the start of set  
_ **You:** _it happens  
_ **You:** _so semis next? against who?  
_ **Sato Momo:** _yeah in like 10/15 min maybe? theres a tiny break  
_ **Sato Momo:** _one sec again I’ll find the roster_

“Something good happen, (Name)-san?” says a voice to your left. You look to see Minami meandering up, kind smile on her face. The blonde reaches down to the bag next to yours—hers, you’re assuming—to pull out a water bottle. “You’ve been smiling for the past minute.”

“Ah, Minami-san,” you say, blinking as the broad smile on your face—the one you didn’t realize was there—slowly falls, morphing into something a bit more sheepish. “I—”

Your phone buzzes again, cutting you off. You quickly read Momo’s text before that grin widens again, though you push it down; when you look up, Minami’s green eyes are shimmering with amusement. “Sorry,” you state. “My friend’s just giving me live updates on something since I can’t be there in person.”

“Must be going well, then,” the dancer answers, tilting her head in consideration.

“Yeah… it is,” you reply, eyes softening. She hums lightly.

“Hope it continues to go that way.”

“I think it will,” you murmur. The words are faint but strong, earnest—full of conviction and unwavering truth. And then you correct yourself, looking the blonde resolutely in the eye. “Actually, I know it will,” you state, this time bolder. And you smile.

Before Minami can respond Takai claps his hands loudly, indicating the start of practice. Everyone quickly begins to meander over to where the coach is. You tap a quick message to Momo—“ _gtg. keep me updated. and remember to cheer for both of us ;)”—_ before silencing the device, dropping it onto your bag and turning to join your clubmates, footsteps light and hopeful. You continue to think about Momo’s previous text, mind wandering as Takai explains today’s schedule.

You’ve only seen Torino perform twice, and both times they were at radically different stages of the team’s development. At April’s practice match, they were unpolished, scrambling, and raw. The second time around at Prelims they still displayed some of those green, slightly chaotic behaviors, but it was very clear to even someone like you that they had learnt new techniques, improved on their past experiences, revamped their sense of teamwork and bonds of trust. In April, they were squawking baby birds; in August, they had grown bold, daring, ready to fly the nest. So now, two months later, who knows where they are at? Perhaps they have become birds of prey, hungry and ready to devour.

But the black-clad athletes aren’t the only ones who have been developing.

Evolution never stops, never ceases to exist for the tenacious and the hardworking. Every day, one step closer towards the goal, one inch closer to reaping the fruits of labor. The road is difficult, arduous and harrowing, filled with infinite bumps that slow one down, with twists and turns in directions that don’t make sense. But for those who keep pushing despite all the tangles and snags, for those who keep moving forward even when it feels like they’re going the wrong way—well, for those people, eventually one day that step, that _inch_ , brings them to success, a fulfillment of a silent promise to oneself.

You know that Oikawa will have many of these moments in his life. He’s barely even eighteen, after all—there’s a _long_ journey ahead for him, him and his stubborn, perfectionistic, unshakeable, inspiring will—

The semifinals: Seijoh versus Torino.

You’re excited to hear about it.

…But…

…why is that feeling of foreboding still there?

* * *

The answer comes about forty minutes later.

Takai calls for a break after Takamaki-san finishes her choreography, an upbeat routine filled with lively jazz combos. It’s a bit weird to see her dancing without Tatsuya, both in terms of familiarity and execution (the latter of which Coach Takai brings up—“You don’t look like you’ve found your own personal groove,” he tells her sternly. “Finding it is absolutely vital in dance—for both solo _and_ partner dance. I can tell you’ve just been letting Tatsuya do the leading.”), but all of those thoughts and opinions disappear from your mind as you pick up your phone to check for your best friend’s updates. Considering Momo had sent so many messages during just the last few minutes of the Quarter Final, you can only imagine the damage she has left this time around.

The amount of notifications on your screen—easily forty and growing—is catastrophic. “Geez, Momo-chan…” you murmur to yourself, smirking as you begin to thumb through them all. But then the lighthearted grin quickly starts to fade as you actually begin to read, starting about halfway through the wall of messages.

 **Sato Momo:** _neck and neck  
_**Sato Momo:** _OIKAWAKUN W A POWER SERVE  
_**Sato Momo:** _OMG  
_**Sato Momo:** _bUT IT MISSED WAT  
_**Sato Momo:** _22-24, birds leading  
_**Sato Momo:** _AND THEN MADDOG  
_**Sato Momo:** _WTF WHATS HIS PROB  
_**Sato Momo:** _we lost first set ): not good_

The times on the texts indicate that Momo didn’t text you for about ten minutes or so after announcing the loss of the first set. When she starts back up again, this time it’s much more frantic, painting a very clear picture of the events quickly snowballing out of control.

Time slows.

_“We are the protagonists of this Monster Ball. We’ll be just fine.”_

**Sato Momo:** _shit  
_ **Sato Momo:** _neck and nec  
_ **Sato Momo:** _neck  
_ **Sato Momo:** _again wtf  
_ **Sato Momo:** _(name)chan its not looking good_

_“We’ll be just fine.”_

**Sato Momo:** _this guy just SCORED 3PTS IN ROW  
_**Sato Momo:** _4 omg no_

 _“We’ll be just fine…”_  
_  
_**Sato Momo:** _23-22 us  
_**Sato Momo:** _23-24 THEM  
_**Sato Momo:** _(name)cahn  
_**Sato Momo:** _seijh omg  
_**Sato Momo:** _we might actually lose_

_“We’ll be… just... fine…”_

**Sato Momo:** _omg  
_**Sato Momo:** _we re goin to lose ???  
_**Sato Momo:** _omg im abt cry  
_**Sato Momo:** _this will be 3rd yrs last match_

 _“…just…”  
  
_ **Sato Momo:** _omg  
_ **Sato Momo:** _no_

_“….....fine…....”_

**Sato Momo:** _no  
  
…  
  
_

_this will be 3rd yrs last match_

_this will be 3rd yrs last match_

_this will be 3rd yrs last match_

  
Suddenly—unexplainably—something breaks. Memories flood into your mind, the dam unable to hold them back. And all you can think of is Oikawa.

_“Surround yourself with the right people, and keep fighting. Just because you’re up against geniuses and strong adversaries doesn’t mean that you still can’t be the best. After all, talent is something you bloom.”_

  
Oikawa, the Persistent.  
  
_“It_ is _a waste, isn’t it?” he asks, looking up at you. That negative mood has completely vanished, overtaken by something confident and steadfast. “No, we’re not_ done _done. We’ll be going to Nationals this year.”_

  
Oikawa, the Relentless.  
  
_"I didn’t know. Not until Momo-chan explained it to me,” you murmur. “Your level of tenacity… not many people have that. It’s risky, but… quite admirable.”_

  
Oikawa, the Leader.  
  
_“I see how Oikawa-kun plays and how he’s able to bring out the best in any player—anyone can see it. And… And that’s a remarkable feat that no one else here can do.” You look at Ushijima, eyes bright, words tumbling out of your lips in a steady stream. “It doesn’t matter where he is—he could have gone to Shiratorizawa, or he could have gone to a no-name school—but no matter the place, he is still able to draw the best out of his teammates. Everyone plays at 100% with him. And that’s really… that’s really amazing.”_

  
Oikawa, the Ordinary.  
  
_“It’s not good enough.”_

_“But you’re still trying.”_

_“I am still trying.”_

  
Oikawa, the—  
  
_“Let’s make a bet.”_

…

_this will be 3rd yrs last match_

_3rd yrs last match_

_last match_

_  
_ And suddenly you find yourself squeezing your phone so tightly it hurts.

“(Name)-san, is everything okay?”

It’s Minami again. She’s looking at you curiously, but when you look up her expression shifts closer to alarm. You don’t know what your face looks like, but if it reflects how you’re feeling internally, you know you’re exuding shock, concern, heartache—

And it’s then that you understand.

Your gut takes over.

“I need to go.”

Minami blinks at your sudden declaration, worry shifting to surprise. “Eh? But practice isn’t—”

“I know,” you interrupt. “But… I need to go.”

And with that, you zip up your black jacket and grab your bag, slinging it over your shoulder. You dash out the door, footsteps pounding against the cement as you rush to catch the 92 East.

* * *

When Hanamaki digs the ball and it goes careening towards out-of-bounds, Oikawa knows only he can get it.

His muscles are screaming at him, begging for respite from that constant push; his lungs burn, crying out for air; his heart pounds, squeezing uncomfortably as he chases after the volleyball. Everything aches, but Oikawa does not care in the slightest. All that matters is connecting with that ball, supporting his teammates, I am not losing today, I am _not_ losing to a genius again, we will fight, _we will prevail_ —

The captain raises a finger, pointing at his ace, his best friend, the person he trusts most: Iwa-chan. From across the court he sees Iwaizumi’s eyes widen in surprise, but the shock quickly morphs into understanding, into resolution. He knows what to do.

Oikawa jumps, twisting his body to send the ball flying straight across the court. The toss feels just right against his fingertips, a perfect setup for victory. And Iwaizumi is right there, waiting. Just as Oikawa knew he would be.

_The strongest set of six will win._

The brunette feels sharp pain shoot through his entire body as he crashes into a table, head slamming against one of the thin chairs tucked underneath. Tiny stars bloom in his vision, all air whooshing out of his lungs from the impact. He scrambles up, slipping against the mat, his weight landing on his bad knee. Pain flares up his leg.

It hurts, everything hurts, his body yells at him to stop—

But Oikawa will not quit.

_Talent is something you make bloom._

He is running, using his full power to get back to his team. They need him—he needs them.

_Instinct is something you polish._

Iwaizumi slams the ball down with a powerful cry, the impact sound ricocheting through the gymnasium. It passes through Tobio’s arms, and for a second Oikawa thinks they’ve done it, the point is ours—

But Sawamura-kun, the cornerstone of Karasuno’s defense, is there as he has been this whole game. The crow’s captain digs it, but Iwaizumi’s spike is just too powerful. The ball flies off, and again there’s that sense of perseverance, _we still fight_ —

The loudmouth second-year wing spiker manages to get it, face-planting into the floor with a roar of “ _Last!_ ” And up the volleyball goes, a miracle lob that shocks Oikawa to the core. But a maniacal grin comes onto the setter’s face as he skids to a stop, preparing for the attack to come.

_We—_

_“Chance ball!”_

Karasuno’s ace sends a spike careening down from the back of the court, and Watacchi just barely manages to catch it. But the ball hits the libero’s arm wrong; it dashes into the net, and for a split second everything slows as the ball begins to descend.

— _are_ —

But Mad Dog—rebellious, stubborn, uncooperative _Mad Dog_ —reaches out, rescuing it. Never in a million years did Oikawa think that it would be Kyoutani who saves the day, but here he is, fighting just like the rest of them. Fighting for one more moment longer on the court, for that chance to reap the fruits of their labor.

— _the stronger_ —

Tobio spikes the ball, but Kindaichi matches him, and it slams into Mr. Refreshing’s forehead.

_—set of six._

The volleyball flies up again, and Chibi-chan screams, “ _Give it to me!_ ” Oikawa braces himself, ready.

_Come on._

Tobio flies back as Chibi-chan comes forward. Oikawa’s junior arches, and the ball lands on his fingertips before being lobbed straight at the redhead in a quick backset.

_Come at me with your ultimate weapon, Tobio!_

Iwaizumi, Kindaichi, and Kyoutani are all there, having read the set. They form a powerful, immovable wall, set to destroy hopes and dreams, another chance to keep the rally going, to _keep fighting_ —

But there’s a hole. Oikawa sees it just as Hinata Shouyou does.

The next seconds of Oikawa’s life suddenly seem to slow, as if the gods wish him to see in slow-motion how he will fail. How he will lose, how he will never obtain his goal. How the fruits of his labor will never be reaped.

The ball hits Kindaichi’s fingertips, spinning off the trajectory Oikawa was prepared for. The captain raises his arms up to adjust, _I am here, I will fight, I will win—_

—but he’s a split-second too slow, _I am here, I will—no, the ball—it’s wrong—_ I’m _wrong—no, no, no no no NO—_

The ball connects.

The ball flies backward.

The ball tumbles to the ground. And with it goes Oikawa’s hopes, shattering into a million pieces in front of him.

No one speaks. No one moves. Everything has frozen in time.

It’s so quiet.

But that ball falling to the floor was loud, painfully so. A dull thud against his eardrums. It hurts.

It continues to hurt as Oikawa’s mind replays the scene, over and over and over and over—

A whistle rings out, breaking the spell.

People begin to move again. People start screaming, cheering, celebrating the defeat of a powerhouse, the fall of a titan. But the people are just a wash of sound to Oikawa, a mere whisper in the distance. He can’t hear anything but that agonizing _thud_ of leather against wood, _thud, thud, thud_ …

The captain of Aoba Johsai stands. His body feels strangely numb, as if that pain from earlier—actually, was there pain? Was it real? He’s having a hard time remembering—it doesn’t feel real. None of it feels real.

He stares at the volleyball, and very slowly—excruciatingly so—he begins to process.

Nationals, once again so close in his grasp…

_The fruits of our labor._

No fruit is born.

There never was. There never will be.

  
Oikawa forces his eyes away, needing to get away, to look at anything but that stupid ball. And that’s when he comes across something just as bad, but for different reasons.

You.

Oikawa’s vision tunnels, and all he can see is you.

There you are, a spot of black amidst a sea of cream-colored vests, amidst uniforms of turquoise and white. Your face is flushed a bright red, hair wild and windswept, chest heaving up-and-down as if you’ve just run a marathon. You’re at the railing, hands gripping the metal so tightly that your knuckles are stark white. And your eyes, your wide eyes—

Panicked, hurting, devastated. All emotions reserved for him.

You saw what happened—everyone did.

You see him, and he sees you.

But you’re the last person Oikawa wanted to see right now.

* * *

After Oikawa finally rips his gaze from yours, he does not look at you for the rest of the endgame procedure. He keeps his eyes trained straight ahead, looking forward, never looking down. His face is set in a hard mask, features neutral. He’s always been difficult to read, but you can say with certainty that you’ve never seen him like this before—so serene, so stony, so muted, revealing absolutely nothing.

At some point when the teams were having their individual meetings, Momo meandered over to your side, face wet with tears. She is still crying now as she claps loudly after Oikawa thanks everyone on behalf of the team. Your friend wraps her arms around your middle as the Aoba Johsai Boys’ Volleyball Team exits the court for the last time, sniffing loudly when you gently rub her back—a soothing gesture, even though you yourself don’t really feel strong enough right now to try to carry the both of you. “The 92 East, huh?” she asks you, voice warbling.

You swallow thickly. “Yeah,” you respond. “The quickest route here.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for ne—for next t-ti—”

But she can’t get the words out, because they’re not true. There won’t _be_ a next time for this team. For Seijoh, yes, of course. But for the third years…

Your grip on your friend tightens, and she squeezes back.

After a while Momo calms down a bit, and she finally unwraps herself from you, turning to go back up to where she had been sitting with some of her classmates, three girls whose eyes also shine with tears. The waterworks start back up again almost instantly after one of them—a pretty strawberry blonde who looks like she dressed up for the occasion—goes, “Well… Tomorrow… Shiratorizawa.” The collection of words, not even a coherent thought, is packed with heavy emotion, and the quartet begins to sniffle collectively. Even you have to grip your hands together tightly, staring at the bleachers.

The look on Oikawa’s face before he turned away is not something you think you’ll easily forget. Even now, with the moment having passed, you’re still struggling to find a way to describe it. Was he troubled? Grieving? Confused?

Yes… but… no.

A face so full of emotion, yet so void at the same time.

Revealing nothing, a master of nuance. Layers upon layers of complexity…

Your feet begin to move before your brain realizes what you’re doing. Momo, surprised, calls after you, but you ignore her silent question. “It’s okay,” you say, despite the fact that it’s inaccurate.

But Momo doesn’t challenge the lie, instead letting you go with a small nod.

You exit the building via the main entrance, head whipping around as you quietly look around for someone who probably doesn’t want to be found. The air is cool and crisp, the earlier rain having dropped the temperature by a few degrees. People, both athlete and spectator alike, mill about, swathed in every color under the sun—but there’s no sign of the familiar white and turquoise. So you keep moving, looking for those familiar brown eyes, that face expertly trained to mask all.

A few moments later you round the corner of the building, and it’s then that you see them, your fallen protagonists. They stand in a line, waiting for their turn to board the bus back home. Reactions vary; some look down at the ground, some look up at the sky. Some are crying, some are dry-eyed. Some seem angry, others not.

But all look despondent, numb. Rudely woken from a dream, forced into a reality that doesn’t feel real.

The quartet of third years you’ve become acquainted with over the past few months stands at the back of the pack, all four deadly quiet, watching their juniors’ reactions with hard eyes. Iwaizumi’s eyebrows are furrowed heavily. Hanamaki’s face looks cool, but his posture is stiff, tense. Matsukawa is shaking a bit, constantly shifting his weight back-and-forth. Oikawa keeps his face still, blank.

But they all stand tall, refusing to bend, refusing to show weakness anymore.

This is the courage of the defeated.

You open your mouth to call out, wanting—needing—to say something. But nothing comes out. Your voice fails you, and words catch on your tongue. So instead you just slow to a stop, feeling dumb and exposed and all kinds of things as you stare at a mess of brown cowlicks, at a back that does not turn your way.

But Iwaizumi does. You hear him say your surname quietly, voice thick and rough. Hanamaki and Matsukawa also turn to look your way, neither of them offering their standard greetings. You don’t blame them.

Oikawa doesn’t turn immediately like the others did. He continues to stand, back to you, for what feels like long, arduous minutes. Finally, you see his shoulders rise and fall as he takes a steady breath, and he turns.

Brown eyes meet (color) ones.

The world melts away.

There is no silent exchange of words, no quiet show of feelings. Absolutely nothing happens.

But you’re here, and sometimes that’s all there needs to be.

Slowly, Oikawa turns to Iwaizumi. He lifts his sports bag over his shoulder, passing it to the ace who takes it from him wordlessly. The captain turns back towards you once again, and he takes a step forward.

He’s in front of you in only a few short strides, long limbs propelling him forward. He looks down at you with that impassive, detached gaze of his. His eyes are surprisingly clear, unwavering—but they are flat, void of any light and humor and teasing that you’ve come to find comfort in. And the words you wanted to say trickle away, leaving you completely blank, tabula rasa.

Oikawa begins to fill up every space in your mind, every nook and cranny. His face etches itself into your memory.

Suddenly, there are words, quiet in the air. “Always that black jacket, huh?” he asks you. “You look like you’re part of another team.”

You don’t have a response. So the captain fills the void with an answer of his own, a solution to something that was never really a problem. He shrugs off his own jacket, reaching over to gently drape it over your shoulders. It’s heavy. Comfortable.

“There, much better,” he says. And that’s when you catch it in his tone, the smallest hint of what’s tucked away deep inside.

Quiet devastation.

The brunette turns to rejoin his team, once again not looking back. You feel Iwaizumi’s eyes on you as he hands Oikawa his bag, but you continue to stare at that broad, straight back, a reflection of that amazing fortitude despite the turmoil within. You continue to stare ahead even as the two load onto the bus and you have nothing to stare at anymore.

The bus leaves quickly thereafter, and you are absolutely and utterly alone.

A breeze floats by, but you are kept warm by that white-and-turquoise jacket enveloping your frame.

It smells like Oikawa. A slight musk, something oddly oriental with a slight hint of citrus and jasmine. Must be that fancy-ass conditioner he recently switched to, the one which made you almost choke on your coffee when he told you the price.

The thought makes you laugh. And you continue laughing until the world suddenly becomes blurry, the tears beginning to fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Companion Song: "Tokyo Rain" by Marcus Warner (an instrumental piece this time around... I imagine this is Reader-chan's background music as she's running and arrives at the game. Highly recommend giving it a listen!)
> 
> \---
> 
> hoooooo boy-
> 
> v dramatic chapter.
> 
> oikawa, you deserve the absolute best.
> 
> (as a side note, I had a bonus bit written for this... but it didn't feel right to include with how the chapter resolved, so I will see if I can incorporate it somewhere else!)
> 
> Excuse the mistakes. Hope you enjoy!


	15. Sayonara

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“For_ Sayonara _, literally translated, 'Since it must be so,' of all the good-bys I have heard is the most beautiful. Unlike the_ Auf Wiedersehens _and_ Au revoirs _, it does not try to cheat itself by any bravado 'Till we meet again,' any sedative to postpone the pain of separation. It does not evade the issue like the sturdy blinking_ Farewell… Sayonara _says neither too much nor too little. It is a simple acceptance of fact. All understanding of life lies in its limits. All emotion, smoldering, is banked up behind it. But it says nothing. It is really the unspoken good-by, the pressure of a hand,_ 'Sayonara.” – Anne Morrow Lindbergh, _North to the Orient_

Hours after Seijoh’s devastating loss, the sun has dipped low and the streetlight that sits just outside your homestead flickers to life, bathing everything in a warm glow. It’s a soothing color—the golden hues are rich and pleasant, usually bringing you an odd sense of comfort when your tired eyes are scanning your well-worn, scribbled-in textbooks during the wee hours of the night—but right now, as you lay on your bed and stare blankly at the ceiling, you find that there’s no sense of _solace_ or _ease_ or _right_ to be found. Because things are, simply put, not right. They are wrong, they are harsh, and they are heartbreaking.

You don’t know how long you stood outside the stadium crying; but by the time you finally gathered yourself together and shuffled off to find Momo, most of the spectators had already left, leaving the arena blanketed in a heavy, almost eerie silence. You found her alone in the lounge area with that weird-looking, looming Moon Face sculpture, staring blankly out the window with a dull, gray gaze. When she looked up as you approached you saw the way her eyes sharpened, observant as always—but she said nothing about the familiar jacket that was still around your shoulders, nor did she provide any commentary on your puffy, red eyes. Your friend instead gave you a small smile, intertwined her arm with yours, and said with fake cheeriness, “Let’s get away from Moon Man, shall we? You know, it doesn’t have eyes… but I still kind of feel like its gaze follows you everywhere, à la _Mona Lisa_. Scary.”

( _“It_ does _do that!”_ you can hear Oikawa saying in your head _. “Creepy~”_ )

Boba, your favorite beverage after coffee, unfortunately did not lift your mood. And Momo, bless her—Momo, despite her best efforts to not talk about the catastrophic event that just occurred… well, she can’t help _but_ talk about it. Every topic eventually circled back:

_“How’s your Budget Project going, (Name)-chan; are you able to find enough time to work together since Oikawa-kun has been working har—oh…”_

_“Did you hear that Masafumi-kun from your class_ finally _asked out Oishi-chan? She said no, though… must be awkward since they’re partners. She ended up baking him a cake—I guess it’s like a sympathy cake, haha—_ MAN _she makes the best desserts. Have you tried her milk bread? It’s_ so _good, I know she was planning on making some in celebration and bringing it on Monday for—Well… um… never mind that!”_

 _“I got some really good shots the other day at the volleyball gam—_ dammit, _self! I meant_ soccer _game, SOCCER! Not volleyball—because, well, now…”_

When you got on the train later after saying goodbye to a very teary Momo, your throat felt oddly tight, a hard lump having lodged itself there and stubbornly refusing to go away. Oikawa’s jacket, which you had taken off inside the Boba shop, felt weighted in your hands, the fabric soft and light and infused with memories of hundreds of practices, of a thousand hours of hard work. One of the first things you did when you got home was drop the jacket off in your room, hating the way it started to feel against your palms.

At home, studying ended up being a moot point; after re-reading the same sentence on the advantages of cost-benefit analysis for what seemed to be the twentieth time and it _still_ not sticking, you slammed your book shut and decided to meander down to the living room to distract yourself. Umeko sat on the floor, watching TV, and so you joined her. After realizing that she was halfway through the newest episode of the drama you two were _supposed_ to be watching together (“I’m sorry—I just couldn’t wait, _okay_?” she insincerely apologized after you began to complain), you wandered back upstairs to take a relaxing bath, deciding to use your sister’s new lavender bath soak out of petty spite. Too bad she was cheap and bought some odd off-brand stuff that’s more perfume-y and overpowering than medicinal and relaxing—so now here you are, laying on your bed, still feeling heavy and muted, and for added bonus you now reek of poor-quality aromatherapy.

( _“Lavender, really? That’s such a grandma scent, (Name)-chan~”_ )

A soft sigh escapes your lips—easily the thirtieth of the night—and that sinking feeling in your chest disappears for a split second before coming back in full force, stubbornly refusing to leave since it manifested hours before. It’s different from the foreboding feeling you had throughout the day, yet it still carries the same weight, if not more so—for now there’s a lingering sense of guilt. You keep huffing and puffing, sighing incessantly and feeling the weight of the world on your shoulders as if _you’re_ the one who’s personally hurting, as if _you’re_ the one that was dealt that harsh, unexpected blow, as if _you’re_ the one whose dreams—yes, only high school dreams in the grand scheme of things, but dreams nonetheless—were crushed before your very eyes, as if _you’re_ the one who is still supporting others despite the tragic loss you must feel inside…

_“Always that black jacket, huh? You look like you’re part of another team.”_

Your gaze slowly slips to the side, where Oikawa’s jacket is neatly draped over your desk chair. You stare at it for a few moments before tilting your head back up to the ceiling, watching as shadows dance across the pale surface. It’s okay to feel a little guilty about feeling upset, because it’s not about _you_. It’s about your partner, your annoying, snarky partner, the one who always has a dumbass comment about everything even if it doesn’t make sense, the one who you feel a connection to that you never thought in a million years would _ever_ happen—

Your hand fishes for your phone, thrown somewhere on the bed; after finding it, you unlock the screen and open your message app, Oikawa’s contact glaring at you. Your fingers begin to tap out messages:

 _Good job_.

_You’re the best setter._

_Does Mad Dog have rabies or something?_

_I’m sorry._

_Nice weather we’re having, huh?_

Each one is erased almost as quickly as it’s written, and with each forgotten text the crease between your eyebrows deepens. You’re sure you’ve given yourself premature wrinkles by the time you give up trying to type anything remotely worthwhile.

( _“(Name)-chan, no! Now you_ really _look like Iwa-chan—the resemblance is uncanny!”_ )

You drop your arm onto your bed with an annoyed grunt, free arm coming to drape itself over your brow. It’s dramatic and very much an overreaction over simple _text messages_ , but it’s hard not to feel frustration. You’ve been trying to find the right words for hours, and each time you try to tap something out, the words either sound flat or insincere (a common plight of every texter), pity-filled (which you’re almost certain is the _last_ thing Oikawa wants right now—or ever), or just outright dumb (c’mon— _nice weather_? _Rabies_?). Deep-down you know that your overthinking is completely unnecessary, that Oikawa probably wants to be left alone right now (and if it’s the contrary, he’d be with people who are much higher up on his List of Important People than you), that you extending your condolences or apologies or _whatever_ really doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things… but you just can’t help but think about him, about that look in his eyes when he stared at you and only you after that final ball fell, that deep, cavernous look that swallowed you whole…

You bring your phone back up to your face and pull up Oikawa’s contact without much thought. You stare at that stupid nickname he gave himself— _The Great Oikawa-san_ —which is now accompanied by an equally stupid selfie of himself, one which was recently added when he hijacked your phone for a second time. Tongue poking out one side of his mouth, one eye closed for a wink, peace sign pressed against his cheek, you in the background frozen in an unflattering yawn.

What an awful picture. Yet you still find yourself smirking a bit.

And that’s when you decide to throw caution to the wind and press _Call_ with a small murmur of “Whatever.”

The phone rings for a long time—but when Oikawa’s voice crackles to life with a steady “ _Hello?_ ” you suddenly realize that it also has not rung for nearly long enough, for you have absolutely no idea what to say.

“ _…Hello?_ ” comes his voice again after a moment, and it registers that you still have not uttered a single noise.

So you say the first thing that comes to mind. “When are you coming to get your jacket?” you ask, which is immediately accompanied by a cringe. _Smooth, (Name)_ , you think. _Great start._

You hear Oikawa hum lightly, but it sounds much flatter than normal. You’re not sure if he sounds like that because of today’s events, or just because of the nature of phone calls. Maybe a combination of both. “ _You can just hold onto it for a bit_ ,” he tells you. “ _I’ll get it eventually. What’s up—or is that the only reason you called?_ ” He means to be teasing, but the sentiment falls flat like his hum.

Of course that’s not the only reason you called; in fact, it’s not even a reason _why_ you called in the first place. You open your mouth to say something—what that something is is unknown, even to you—but then you hear the unmistakable sounds of cars rushing past on the other end of the line. You blink, a bit surprised. “Are you home?” you ask, though it’s quite obvious that no, he’s not.

“ _Ah, no… some of us third years decided to go to the school gym for a bit, so…_ ” He pauses, the thought unfinished.

It makes sense why they did: it’s a symbolic gesture, one final farewell to a place that’s acted as an oasis for them for the past three years. But you feel your heart squeeze uncomfortably at the thought, because you understand how hard it is. As Oikawa told you months before, sometimes it’s hard to let go—to say goodbye.

Outside the wind whistles, a sudden gust of cold evening air that sweeps through the trees and rattles your window. You take one quick look out into the night before swinging your feet off your bed, free hand grabbing at Oikawa’s jacket. “Where are you at?” you ask, opening your bedroom door and hurrying down the stairs to the entryway. You jam your feet into your sneakers and are out the door a split second later. The air is crisp, a stark contrast to the warmth of your home. “I’ll come find you.”

“ _(Name)-chan, that’s really not necessary—_ ”

“Sure is,” you interrupt swiftly, ignoring his protests. “You’re going to catch a cold if you keep walking around in just a T-shirt. It’s almost November.” You unlatch the gate and rush out to the sidewalk, resolute in what you have—want—to do. “Are you still near school or—”

You don’t finish your sentence; you don’t need to. For when you turn your head, steps already taking you in the direction of school, you see him.

He stands near the streetlight. That warm light sets him aglow, illuminated in hues of regal gold. But with the light comes the shadows, dark and looming. And his face—

Your feet slow and you come to a gentle, hesitant stop mere feet from him. Ever-so-slowly, you lower your phone; Oikawa does the same. He stares at you and you him. No one moves, no one speaks. Frozen in time with discomforting light and revealing shadows. A quiet, solemn place.

And then you finally find your voice. “Did you get lost?” you query softly, though you know the answer. He lives a fifteen-minute walk the other way—he knows where he is.

“No, I…” Oikawa pauses, breaking eye contact and casting his gaze off to the side. He looks hesitant, uncertain. It looks so foreign and wrong, and you hate it. “I was with Iwa-chan,” the brunette continues, the words tumbling out, “and then after he left I just started walking, and I—”

He cuts himself off suddenly, eyes snapping back to you. They don’t flicker in the light. The bright fire normally present has dimmed to mere embers, dull and lacking and barely there anymore. And when he sees you looking back at him, your own eyes soft, Oikawa’s mask begins to fracture. He furrows his eyebrows, lips twisting downward as he tries to hold everything together—but the cracks are deep and wide, unrepairable, and the pieces keep tumbling down.

The golden light is bright and harsh, illuminating the harsh reality of vulnerability.

Your lips press together tightly. You watch as the well-built façade crumbles, watch as the stubborn insecurity takes advantage of the temporary weakness, watch as the bravado is stripped away. You feel grim—and yet with it comes a gentleness, a need to reach out and just… be there.

And so you do. Your footsteps are light and quick, and you reach Oikawa in a few short strides. “Come on,” you murmur gently, placing a hand on his back. He doesn’t struggle as you lead him into your house, silent the whole time.

Your heart hurts. It hurts for Iwaizumi, for Matsukawa, for Hanamaki, for all of the team—but it hurts the most for Oikawa, for he who worked so hard, for he whose dreams were big, for he who was so close to tasting victory.

So close.

But not close enough.

* * *

The mug clacks against the wood of your coffee table as you place a steaming cup of tea in front of Oikawa, scooting it gently toward his frame. “Tea, since I know you think it’s too late for coffee,” you comment, offering a small, borderline dry smile. You’re hoping for some sort of snarky reply—“ _Tea still has caffeine, (Name)-chan~”_ —but instead the setter merely mutters his thanks quietly, hands wrapping around the cup as he stares at the contents within. You sigh softly but say nothing further, placing your own mug down and sitting adjacent to him. The silence rolls in thick and heavy like fog, the only sounds interspersing the tension being your cat Hachi’s quiet snoring on the bed and the muffled sounds of the living room TV downstairs.

Oikawa doesn’t say anything for a very long time, but it doesn’t bother you in the slightest—if he wants to talk he will, and you’re okay to either wait or sit in silence. Finally he speaks, voice a bit tired and thick. “Thanks for the text,” he starts, and you realize he’s talking about the one wishing him good luck. “It was a little late, though.”

The corners of your mouth quiver upward, hidden partially by your teacup. His last comment is laced with muted snark—not a lot of it, of course, but still there none the less. You can’t help but feel a little relieved. “Better late than never,” you respond.

Oikawa makes no move to either agree or disagree. His own dry smirk flits up onto his face, eyes unhumored. “Guess I owe you dinner, huh?”

Ah, the bet. You’d already forgotten about it. You kind of wish he had, too.

You feel yourself soften at his words, shoulders slumping just the slightest as you sigh—but despite that, your next words are strong and resolute. “Nah,” you say, shaking your head slightly. “I didn’t win.”

Oikawa finally looks to you, brows slightly raised in curiosity. So you clarify. “I said you’d have to pay if you lost and you sucked.” You pause, biting the inside of your cheek, before meeting his gaze. “You definitely didn’t do the latter. So it’s a stalemate.”

Technically the terms you just stated are not completely correct. In your original phrasing, “sucking and losing” was meant more as a collective idea rather than two distinct terms and conditions. But… well… this way is just fine, too.

Your words—your dumb, insignificant words about a dumb, insignificant bet—are the final nail in the coffin, and those last pieces of that mask disintegrate, revealing the brokenness underneath it all. Oikawa looks down at the table, down at his untouched tea, down at that old coffee stain that refuses to come out of the wood. He looks down down down, the weight of the world heavy on his shoulders. It’s almost as if you can feel the weight yourself, hear his thoughts twisted by the negativity and defeat. Everything seems to press him down: his failure on the court, his failure to lead his team to success, his failure to reach his goals and to surpass those _geniuses_ —

You speak. “Should have gone to Shiratorizawa, huh?”

It’s such an inappropriate, ill-timed, bitchy comment. Oikawa’s head snaps up, looking at you with a face full of shock, offense, annoyance, bewilderment—everything and anything negative is there. It only lasts a few seconds, though; he quickly registers the expression on your face, ever the master of observance, and everything begins to melt away on his own. You don’t know what you look like, but that’s not important to you right now. All that matters is that your statement did what you intended: it brought him back to reality, away from spiraling deep into the dangerous territory of insecure thoughts.

Oikawa begins to laugh. It’s quiet at first, merely a chortle. But then it turns into a deep, full-bellied laugh, filling the small space of your room with irony and absurdity and _what the fuck_ and gut-wrenching heartbreak. You don’t join in.

And then his head falls down again, hands tightening into tight fists. His shoulders begin to shake, and they continue to shake as he lets out a weighted “ _Dammit_ ”, the tears beginning to fall silently onto the table.

You don’t move for a long time. And then slowly and hesitantly, you lean over to reach for him, wordlessly wrapping your arms around his shoulders. You feel awkward and unsure, worried that you’re overstepping some sort of boundary, and you’re sure your foot is going to fall asleep very soon based on how you’re sitting—but all those thoughts are completely thrown from your mind when you feel a hand come up onto your forearm, squeezing lightly. It’s an unfamiliar gesture, very foreign and a bit surprising… but it’s also reassuring, warm, and necessary—a silent request that you understand.

So you lean your cheek against the back of his shoulder, looking out. Your eyes lock onto your desk, where you had swiftly and haphazardly tossed his jacket before rushing down to make tea. And you continue to stare at that crumpled white-and-turquoise fabric as you grieve with Oikawa, listening to his frustrated tears and desperately hoping that your small gesture of solidarity can provide him with some sense of comfort, no matter how small.

* * *

Oikawa had no intention of seeing you that night. In fact, he’s almost certain that was one of the last things on his mind. Seeing you at the very end of the match had been abysmal; the fact that you went out of your way to come _find_ them as they were loading the busses was even worse. And then when he turned around after Iwa-chan called your name to see you with that expression of yours—gods, _that expression_ —well… in retrospect Oikawa thinks that was when the chinks in his emotional armor began to appear, when the vulnerability began to rear its ugly head. So in a way it’s _your_ fault he’s sensitive, it’s _your_ fault he feels exposed, it’s _your_ fault he wears his heart on his sleeve tonight.

…Okay, so Oikawa knows it’s not _actually_ your fault. You’re not to be blamed for any of this in the slightest. The setter was thinking a bit about it after he and Iwa-chan parted ways—“it” being your sudden appearance at the semis, the way your small frame was practically swallowed in his jacket, the good luck text he finally viewed when the team was eating (seeing it just made him hurt, an emotion that was quickly deflected by shoving his face with food and then arguing with Makki when the wing spiker chided him about ordering more noodles), the way he turned around to look at you through the bus window, only to find that you continued to stand there, watching the bus even when it disappeared into the distance… Actually, “it” ended up being you in general. And by the time he was done thinking about “it,” you had called, and that’s when Oikawa realized where his feet had taken him.

So no, Oikawa had no intention of seeing you that night. It just happened.

Just like he had no intention of staying no more than thirty minutes. But here it is, quarter to eleven at night, and he’s just now shrugging his jacket on to leave.

It just happened.

The night air mists around Oikawa’s mouth as he breathes out softly, an indication of the first cold snap of the season. The wind has luckily calmed but still occasionally breezes past, and the brunette buries himself deeper into his newly-reclaimed jacket. He sees you shudder a bit—you decided to see him out despite him insisting it’s completely unnecessary—and for a split second Oikawa feels the urge to shrug off his coat to give to you again. But then he realizes oh yeah, I _just_ got it back; so instead he does nothing, merely looking at you with silent contemplation.

Time moved quickly. Oikawa’s not sure why it did (perhaps it’s just catching up from when it slowed as that final ball hit his arm, _thud_ there goes your last chance at Nationals, _thud_ you’re a failure, _thud_ you won’t succeed _thud_ not a genius _thud_ failure _thud_ give up _thud_ okay brain stop no more, move on)—but regardless of the reason, the four hours he spent with you went by in a flash. He also doesn’t know how long he spent crying, but you were there the whole time, a familiar presence providing soothing in a sea of dark thoughts and uncertainty.

He hates it. He hates the fact that he cried ( _again_ ), he hates the fact that you witnessed it. He hates that he allowed himself to be so weak and vulnerable, he hates that you had to comfort him. He hates how the back of his shirt—the spot where you rested your head—felt a little wet, and he hates how your eyes were slightly red and shiny when you finally pulled away. And Oikawa _especially_ hates the fact that when you unwrapped your arms around his shoulders, he immediately felt the absence of your presence.

The rest of the time—how long that was, Oikawa can’t say—was spent with you chattering away about anything and everything, the topics random, mundane, and absolutely and utterly distracting. He learns a bit about the people in your life, past and present. You have been best friend with Momorin since time immemorial, and you two met while playing violin in what you’ve dubbed the “Baby Orchestra” (whatever that means). Umeko’s third-greatest love (after dance and drinking) is American dramas, which you two like to view together even though she always watches the newest episodes without you (“Like today,” you grumble, which makes Oikawa smirk). You have a bet with Fumiko-chan regarding if she’ll be single or not before the end of this year (Oikawa tells you you’re crazy for thinking she would date this year, _especially_ considering you bet that it would be with the baseball captain—and Fumiko’s partner—Iwasaki-kun). Nana and Hachi are named such because Nana has a crooked tail… and Hachi was actually named by Ushiwaka back in elementary school when you first adopted the lazy cat. (At first Oikawa bristles when you say “Ushi-kun,” but after you finish your weird tale—“Seven, eight… It makes sense, doesn’t it?” you ask, and Oikawa says, “No, absolutely not”—the sting isn’t quite as bad as he thought it would be.)

He also learns about you. The setter feels like he knows quite a bit about you already at this point, but tonight he gets to hear about some of your quirks, some oddball things that make you _you_ —you know, the trivia that is useless and nonessential but end up being some of your favorite things about a person.

You love to wear the color black merely because you subscribe to the belief that it looks good on everyone (Oikawa thinks white looks _much_ more chic, but you merely shrug at him when he tells you such). You despise kanji (no one’s surprised there) and have a tendency to read things wrong because you have a habit of glazing over the minor details in the characters (“You should really work on that,” he tells you, to which you respond, “Yeah, probably.”). You prefer to write your name in hiragana (again, no one is surprised). You started drinking coffee way too young, but literally everyone in your whole family drinks multiple cups a day, so maybe you were doomed from the get-go (“Generations of coffee flow through my veins,” you say, and Oikawa goes, “That sounds gross.”). You are absolutely and utterly tone deaf, something that you prove when Oikawa (somehow) gets you to hum the national anthem. (In fact, you’re _so_ off-key that it makes Oikawa tear up as he laughs at how bad you are.)

You’re in the middle of talking about how your mom looks like her mom, and how your mom’s mom looked like your mom’s mom’s mom (and so on and so forth) when Oikawa’s phone buzzes with a text from his own mom, asking him where he is. The setter quickly replies with a lie about how he’s at Iwa-chan’s and will be home later, something that she doesn’t question—and although Iwaizumi responds with a “no” when Oikawa texts him asking the ace to cover for him should Mother Oikawa ask, he knows his best friend will do it no questions asked. Oikawa’s not sure what compelled him to fib—the text exchanges indicated it was half-past nine already, so he really should be getting home—but then you begin recalling the time Umeko self-bleached her hair a horrendous shade that was more yellow than the intended platinum, and Oikawa decided he could stay for one more story.

One more story turned into two, which then turned into Oikawa telling you about the time he got his idol’s signature but had to use his (fresh) jockstrap as a surface because Iwa-chan hogged the board they bought together. And that turned into him telling you about his theory regarding aliens, which then prompted you two to contemplate the vastness of the universe as a whole… And then Oikawa looked at the clock again, and it was nearing eleven at night.

Like he said, it just happened.

“I know you’re a big boy and all, but please text me when you get home,” you say, breaking the silence with a small smile. The light from the streetlight shines on your face, illuminating everything in a pretty, upbeat gold.

“I will if I remember,” he responds, giving a small smirk of his own. Oikawa then pauses, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. He worries his bottom lip a little before opening his mouth, words on his tongue—but they quickly die away when you hold up a hand.

“Don’t,” you murmur. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

Oikawa falters, feigning light offense. “Who said anything about apologizing?” he asks, though that’s exactly what he was going to do.

“Your face says it all.” You tilt your head slightly, eyes glinting with slight smugness at the fact that you (correctly) read his expression.

Oikawa scoffs, though like before it’s just an act. “Didn’t you _just_ complain like a few days about me being fake?” He crosses his arms across his chest, leaning on his good leg.

“Not exactly what I said,” you reply, mimicking his pose with a smirk. “I said you have lots of _layers_ , Onion Prince. Things aren’t always as they seem, you know.”

“Oooh, are you implying you have the intelligence to perceive what has been carefully hidden?” queries Oikawa, laughing a bit when you make a face at the quip. The setter pats your head with a smirk, something that causes you to make a cute noise of indignation; he then turns to leave, saying over his shoulder, “See you Monday, Space Princess. Try not to get alien-napped by then~”

Oikawa intends to leave it at that, but you apparently have other plans. He suddenly feels a hand reach out and grasp his, fingers curling urgently around his own larger ones. The brunette feels a shock course through his whole body; he turns to look at you, eyes wide in surprise.

You also seem startled by your actions, and immediately you drop his hand as if burnt. You blink a few times, eyes large and saucer-like. And you begin to speak, words tumbling out of your mouth without much thought (something he’s noticed you tend to do when you’re startled or uncomfortable— _are_ you uncomfortable…?). “I’m sorry things turned out the way they did,” you murmur, and the sentiment makes something inside Oikawa wither slightly.

 _Ah yes,_ there’s _the pity_ , he thinks, refraining from sneering. His eyebrows furrow with frustration instead, the only indication of his annoyance on an otherwise passive face. It’s inevitable that the news will get out that Karasuno beat them, and Oikawa also understands that he is going to be showered with sympathies and _I’m sorry_ s and all that unnecessary garbage within the coming days. It happens with every major loss, and it always pisses him off to no end. Pity, no matter _how_ well-intentioned, is the thing that Oikawa hates the most in the world. He was hoping to avoid hearing condolences until at least Monday at school, but apparently that’s not going to happen.

“I’m also sorry that I was only there at the end,” you continue, as if _that’s_ something that really needs apologizing for. “Momo-chan was texting me updates the whole time—sounds like it was a tough game, but you guys kicked ass.”

Oikawa scoffs and this time it’s genuine. His unspoken words hang in the air: _Wasn’t good enough to win_.

The setter can tell you understood by the way your lips purse in disapproval. But you persist with your monologue nevertheless, looking him squarely in the eyes. “I’m excited to see where the future lands you,” you tell him.

The way your voice rings with sincerity catches him off-guard. He blinks, once, then twice, and then blinks a few more times as the words sink in.

“I can practically hear the uni coaches arguing about who gets you next year,” you continue, now smirking broadly. “I can also hear some jingling—must be that pretty scholarship money. Please make sure to share some of it with us common folk, alright? Or if you decide not to go the university route, convince them to give the scholarship to me. I _am_ going to the Summer Olympics, after all. Obviously I know how to volleyball.” You flip your hair over your shoulder, putting on airs.

Oikawa chuckles lightly, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all—as if _you_ “know how to volleyball” (a joke, he knows), or like _you_ of all people will need any assistance getting scholarship funding (it’s a joke to him, but unfortunately Oikawa can’t tell if you also think it is). “What’s this~?” he queries, leaning forward. “And here I thought you were planning on pretending I didn’t exist again the minute we submit our stupid project.”

“That ‘ _again’_ is unnecessary,” you comment, sticking your tongue out at him. “Also I can’t say I haven’t thought about it, but we both know you can’t be rid of that easily. You’re like an annoying rash that won’t go away. Iwaizumi-kun has been dealing with your bullshit for _years_ , and you’re still here.” There’s a mischievous glint in your eyes.

“(Name)-chan, so rude~” Oikawa whines, and then you laugh. The sound is crisp and light and full of mirth, and it still reminds him of a tinkling windchime in the summertime. The setter finds his mood lifted just a tiny bit more by it.

And then you look at him with a shy smile, and do something very surprising to Oikawa: you hold your arms out for a hug. It’s hesitant and almost seems a bit out-of-character for you, much like the hair thing was… but then Oikawa starts to think that maybe it’s not the case. Maybe… maybe it’s just another side of you that you’ve let him see and experience.

And for that he is grateful.

So Oikawa obliges your quiet request, stepping forward to wrap you in a hug. He has to lean down and you have to stand on your tiptoes, and the brunette realizes then how small you are. He’s reminded of when he first met you. To him you seemed tiny, mousey, invisible to most people (including himself); but as he got to know you more, got to see the you beneath the surface—the insecure girl who has lots of shadows, but who also lights the way with very unexpected, quiet courage—you stopped seeming so small in his eyes. Amazing what perspective does.

There’s some floral scent that clings to your skin, but you pull away before he registers what it is. Your eyes are soft yet bright, a lovely combination. “Have a good night, Oikawa,” you say. “Get some sleep, okay?”

Oikawa nods and turns to leave; this time you don’t stop him. The temperature continues to dip as he continues his trek home, but the setter finds he’s no longer bothered by it. In fact, he feels a bit warm. Must be the jacket.

He’s about five minutes from home when he realizes what that odd scent on you was: lavender. “Really, (Name)-chan? Lavender?” Oikawa murmurs to himself. “That’s such a grandma scent.”

And then two minutes later, he has another realization: as you said goodbye, you called him Oikawa. It’s the first time he’s heard you directly address him by name.

The first observation is dumb, and the second is insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

But Oikawa finds himself smiling nonetheless.

* * *

You stay outside until Oikawa has turned the corner, knees knocking together because you weren’t smart enough to grab a jacket before seeing him off. You also hadn’t expected the conversation to last as long as it did, but sometimes things just happen.

When you enter your abode you’re greeted with blissful heat and Umeko looking at you from the living room. You go to the kitchen to grab something to eat—you hadn’t eaten dinner before Oikawa showed up—and then you join your sister in the living room, bowl of rice and tin of _furikake_ in hand. You plop down next to her with a sigh.

Umeko gives you a sidelong glance, sipping at her beer. “You look like you need a drink,” she comments.

“Probably,” you respond, shaking the seasoning on your rice before digging in hungrily.

“You want one?” she asks, holding her beverage out to you. “Promise I won’t call the cops.”

You push it away, rolling your eyes. “If you did, you’d also get in trouble for serving alcohol to a minor.”

Your sister hums in response, and the two of you lapse into silence. It’s short-lived, however, for after a moment she asks, “All good?” You know what she’s alluding to, considering she had seen Oikawa when he first came in.

“It will be,” you answer honestly. “Eventually.”

“You’re lucky Mom and Dad are away on business trips, or else you would have had your ass handed to you for having a boy here so late. Trust me, I’d know,” Umeko states, snorting loudly.

“You know you _could_ get your own place,” you comment, to which your sister shrugs noncommittedly.

“You act like rent is cheap,” she says, wagging her finger at you. “I’m a university student with no steady income—my job is to study hard.” She completely ignores the flat look you give her (because _her_? _Studying hard?_ Please). “Besides, with Mom and Dad away more often, _someone_ has to watch Baby Sister to make sure she’s not doing anything she shouldn’t be.”

Umeko wiggles her eyebrows at you suggestively. You choke on a bit of rice, feeling your face heat up as you glare at her for the absurd comment. “Quit being weird, _oneesan_. It’s not like that.”

“So defensive, (Name)-chan~” Umeko states, laughing loudly and gracefully dodging as you try to shove her. “I know, I know~ Geez, chill out. I’m just teasing.” She sips at her beer, gaze contemplative. “Tooru-kun’s very handsome, though. I see him occasionally at the little volleyball club Chieko-chan helps manage—you remember her, right? My drinking buddy.”

“Which one?” you mutter under your breath.

Umeko continues, ignoring you. “All the volunteers—mostly the girls, but even a few of the guys, too—get so distracted when he’s nearby. I think he goes weekly? I’m not sure, I only go occasionally…”

“He’s there every Monday,” you answer, thinking about Oikawa’s nephew.

(The brunette has recently told you his name was Takeru; when he showed you a picture of the boy, you took one look at his face and said, “I bet he gives you a lot of crap, huh?”

“(Name)-chan, no! He knows his uncle is too awesome for criticism~”

“Sure,” you say flatly, and then lean forward to squint at a picture in his album. “What—what is this picture? Is that you? I can’t tell because it’s so blurry…”

“Ah yes, a shining moment in my life, ruined by Takeru’s poor camerawork…”)

“Well regardless of the day,” Umeko says, “there was one time when a kid _smashed_ a volleyball into a volunteer’s face because she was too busy looking at Tooru-kun. It was so funny. Too bad I got hit myself when I was distracted from laughing…”

You snort, both at the irony of Umeko’s statement and the fact that everyone you know, apparently, has gotten hit in the face and/or head by a volleyball (Ushi-kun, Momo-chan, Umeko, Oikawa that first time you met him, probably Iwaizumi at some point or another…). “It’s like that at school, too,” you comment, and Umeko raises her eyebrows. “Not the volleyball thing—the distraction. It’s like every girl loves him or something.” You shrug noncommittedly, mimicking Umeko’s previous gesture.

“Except for you,” your sister states, watching you.

“Except for me,” you confirm with a nod.

“And yet he chooses to hang out with you?” Umeko asks. You hate that sly grin that snakes its way to her face, rolling your eyes in response.

“He kind of _has_ to unless we want to fail, you know,” you answer, because it’s true—this dumb Budget Project is of a hefty part of your final grade.

“But even outside of the project?” she questions further, and you shrug again.

“We don’t really hang out outside of the project…” you muse, tapping your chin with the clean end of your chopsticks. You rack your brain of instances where the two of you “hung out,” coming up mostly blank. “And when we do ‘hang out,’” you state, using air quotes, “it’s more circumstance than anything. Turns out our social circles aren’t as far apart as I thought they’d be.” There’s Momo, Iwaizumi, Minami even… Ushi-kun (though maybe that one is a stretch)… Tatsu—

_Nope._

Your mouth quivers down into a troubled frown at the almost-thought.

Umeko doesn’t seem to notice. “I hated that project,” she says, pulling you back to the present.

You finish your dinner before standing up, heading to the kitchen before you retire for the night. “Doesn’t everyone.”

* * *

**BONUS 1**

“By the way,” Umeko calls just as you’re about to go back up the stairs. “Since we were talking about Tooru-kun—there was a volleyball thing today, right?”

You blink at your sister, eyebrows furrowing. “Yeah, the Spring Playoffs… How did you know?”

“Do you know how Karasuno did?” Umeko asks, ignoring your question.

“Eh? Karasuno?”

“Yeah—I think they were playing today. Uniforms are black, they have this really short redhead if I remember correctly—”

“Wait,” you interrupt, “it’s… it’s not Torino?”

Umeko looks at you, bewildered. “ _Torino_?”

“The team’s name,” you answer, coming back over to the couch. A strange pit drops into your stomach out of nowhere, something that happens when you suddenly have a feeling that you’re going to feel dumb very, very soon.

“No, pretty sure it’s Karasuno…” Umeko writes the characters for Karasuno on the couch, and as you look at the kanji the pit drops further into your stomach. You begin to sweat a bit; Umeko blinks, then opens her mouth in shock. “No—no way—” she stammers, and then writes the kanji for “bird”— _tori_ —right next to the others. The one-stroke difference glares at you, and you indeed feel very, very dumb.

“ _No way!_ ” Umeko screams, and then she begins to laugh loudly. “You actually read it as _TORINO_ this whole time!? _No way! You’re so dumb!_ ”

“I read it fast, okay!” you defend, cheeks bright red. Umeko continues to laugh until tears prick at her eyes. You reach over to grab a pillow and shove it into her face, effectively muffling her raucous joy. “Why are you asking about _Karasuno_ , anyway?” you demand, trying to steer the conversation away from the fact that you made a mistake a child would.

You’re successful. Umeko pulls the pillow off her face, tossing it back onto the couch. “I met their coach at a bar like two weeks ago. He’s really hot in like a scruffy janitor way. I want his number.” Your sister sighs, swooning. You look at her distastefully. “Do you know if _Torino_ is playing tomorrow?”

You purse your lips, not taking the bait that your sister has very obviously thrown for you. Instead you answer seriously. “They are. We lost to them.”

Umeko blinks in surprise, obviously not expecting your answer. “Oh. That sucks,” she states bluntly. There’s a brief pause before she asks, “So how much do you think I need to know about volleyball to have a chance with Hot Janitor Coach?”

“Umeko- _oneesan_ , no—you can’t date him!”

“What? Why not? Is it considered a conflict of interest or something?”

* * *

**BONUS 2**

_Spring Interhigh Finals, Miyagi_

  
When Oikawa sees (Surname) Umeko at the volleyball finals match, his first thought is that she’s lost. The second is that he kind of wants to hide, as he really doesn’t want people knowing he’s here. It’s bad enough that Iwa-chan found him.

Well, _seeing_ (Surname) Umeko is incorrect. It was more of a _hearing_ (Surname) Umeko.

“This place smells like Salonpas and I hate it.”

“Then why are you here in the first place? No one _asked_ you to come—you invited yourself like the Ass-kai you are—”

“Sour like always, _Umeboshi_. This is a free country; I can go wherever I please—”

“Yes, but why can’t you go _wherever you please_ in places that _I_ don’t go _wherever I please_. How is it that you _always_ seem to be wherever I am, are you stalking me or something—”

“Don’t flatter yourself—"

The bickering gets louder, and shortly thereafter Oikawa sees Umeko round the corner. She opens her mouth to retort back to her companion—a tall man with a very soured look and flat, annoyed dark eyes—when her eyes lock with Oikawa’s, expression melting from anger to surprise to cheer. “Tooru-kun!” she greets, coming closer with the sour man in tow.

“Umeko-oneechan,” Oikawa responds, giving a tight smile. His Pleasant Mask has repaired itself just slightly from last night, but it’s still very fragile and worn. Iwa-chan looks at him curiously but doesn’t say anything otherwise.

Umeko turns to her friend (? That’s a questionable term), gesturing to the brunette. “This is Tooru-kun, (Name)’s boyfriend,” she states. Oikawa falters.

“Well, no—”

“Oh, sorry,” corrects Umeko, who turns back to the annoyed man. “This is Tooru-kun. He’s boning my sister.” The blatant lie comes from her mouth smooth as butter, and Oikawa almost falls off his seat.

Iwa-chan chokes suddenly and Oikawa quickly shouts, “ _Also not happening!_ ”

Umeko ignores her companion when he makes a face and mutters “Can you _be_ any more crass?”, instead grinning wildly and waving her hand nonchalantly. “I’m just _kidding_. You kids have no sense of humor these days!”

(“No, you’re just crude,” the sour man mutters. “No wonder you’re single—"

“I’m single by _choice_ , Ass-kai!” shouts Umeko, jamming her finger into his side.)

Umeko turns back to Oikawa, face softening with sincere concern. “Are you feeling better?” Her words are laced with sympathy, but not overtly so.

Oikawa stiffens just a bit before offering a smile that’s not quite real, but not entirely fake, either. “I am, thanks for asking.”

Umeko nods, smiling herself. “Well good,” she states. “(Name) was really worried about you when you left last night.” The elder (Surname) waves in farewell as she walks off.

Her words stir something up in the brunette, but Oikawa doesn’t get time to process any of it; suddenly he feels a very angry gaze on him, and all he can think is _Uh-oh_. The setter turns to Iwaizumi, hands raised in a placating gesture. “N-Now, Iwa-chan—”

The ace doesn’t give his friend a chance to speak any further. He wraps Oikawa in a chokehold, face angry. “So _that’s_ why you asked me to cover for you last night, so you could go see a girl?! You piece of trash—”

“It was just (Name)-chan, Iwa—ack, _Iwa-chan_ —”

“Newsflash: _She’s a girl!_ Don’t use me as your scapegoat, Kusokawa!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Companions: “Nascence” by Austin Wintory (another instrumental!) and “King” by Lauren Aquilina  
> \---
> 
> Another long chapter, with lots to unpack! LOL Umeko in Bonus 2. :D Much to Takai’s glee (as we know he ~loves~ to see her wrong), she is incorrect and will continue to be incorrect, as there won’t be any boning in this story (or in any of my stories lol)…!
> 
> A few things…
> 
> Thank you for the 5,000+ views and the 300+ kudos!! WOW! I know this is a ~very~ long story, so I appreciate everyone who has stuck around to read and who keeps reading. I’m so thankful for each and every one of you!
> 
> I keep forgetting to say this, but I have a [Twitter](https://twitter.com/airomiii)! (@airomiii). I don’t tweet a lot but if the spirit moves you I’d love to chat and connect with you all there, as I know sometimes the comment section isn’t necessarily meant for conversation hahah! :)
> 
> I love love love the summary quote. It’s quite long, though, so I had to edit it down…[Here's](https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/575728-for-sayonara-literally-translated-since-it-must-be-so-of) a link to the full quote. (Can you tell I've recently learnt how to embed? haha)
> 
> Last chapter I mentioned I had a bonus written, but didn’t feel like it belonged. I still cannot figure out where it belongs, so you know what we’re putting it here, esp because it’s decently short:
> 
> \---  
>  **BONUS**  
>  _A short while after Karasuno's win against Aoba Johsai_
> 
> “Ah,” Kageyama says, “it’s Oikawa-san’s girlfriend.”
> 
> Hinata squints at the figure in the distance. “Are you sure that’s her and not someone else?”
> 
> “Of course it’s her, _boke_. Look at the jacket.”
> 
> You hear people approaching and turn to look, hands coming up to quickly rub at your face. “Ah, Torino,” you say, and everyone suddenly stiffens.
> 
> _Torino…?_
> 
> “Good game,” you continue, either oblivious or ignoring the other team’s tension. “I can see you’ve improved since I last saw you. Best of luck against Ushi-kun tomorrow.”
> 
> You sprint off, leaving Karasuno confused and silent. Finally, someone speaks.
> 
> “T…Torino?”
> 
> “I mean… I feel like it is a common mistake, but still…”
> 
> “That guy can’t even be bothered to correct her on our name?”
> 
> “We just won, yet I still feel like the Great King is victorious somehow…”
> 
> “Ooooooh that guy pisses me off so bad.”
> 
> “But enough about that—did you—did you catch that last bit? _Ushi-kun_? Wha—”
> 
> “You know, she said only about three sentences’ worth… but there’s just so much to unpack from it…”
> 
> \---
> 
> Okay done talking now. Hope everyone’s taking good care! As always please excuse the mistakes (but this time actually, cause this was written and edited at 2 AM hahaha). See you in the next chapter :)


	16. Anchor in Changing Waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“My yesterdays walk with me. They keep step, they are gray faces that peer over my shoulder.”_ – William Golding

Other than the promised “I’m home” text sent shortly after the two of you part, you do not see or speak to Oikawa for the rest of the weekend. Umeko does report that she sees him “with his angry-looking friend”—almost certainly Iwaizumi—at the volleyball finals on Saturday; and although you don’t ask, she lets you know that the setter seemed like he was doing okay. You can’t help but be thankful for the update, and as your sister starts to go on and on about how Takai ruined everything with his presence (“ _Seriously,_ why was he there? I didn’t get a chance to talk to Karasuno’s Hot Janitor Coach because of him—Shit-geru ruins everything.”), you start to ponder about how much things will change for the captain—ex-captain—in the wake of his disaster.

On Monday the aftermath is surprisingly peaceful, minimal. Oikawa smiles politely at those that flock around his desk in the morning, offering cordial _Thank you_ s and cheery _Next time_ s in response to the condolences and words of encouragement—sentiments that you know he doesn’t need nor want. No one pays you any mind as you watch from the sidelines quietly, eyes glued to your partner. That mask of his is displayed brilliantly for the world to see, so convincing that you almost forget how it crumbled to pieces only mere nights before. You’re so focused on your careful observation that it’s only when Fumiko leans forward to whisper in your ear “If you’re going to stare, try not to make it so obvious” that you rip your gaze away, cheeks turning a light pink at the prospect of being caught. When you look over one last time Oikawa is now watching you, too; he offers an easy smile that’s just as seamless as the ones given out to everyone else, and before you can even respond with your own half-hearted one he turns away, face indifferent and candid and looking as though the last few days never happened, as if nothing’s changed. You can’t help but feel a bit unsettled.

After dance practice two days later, you’re walking to your regular spot in the gym mezzanine when you suddenly recognize where you are. The realization ends up being kind of funny—at first it’s a “haha” sort of funny when you register that your feet have taken you here out of sheer habit, but then the humor dims and becomes a bit sour when you grasp that now there’s no real reason to be here anymore. For a moment you watch as the underclassmen scrimmage, lips curving downward. Down below the team works diligently, communicating with each other via shouts of “One touch!” and “Get it!” There’s laughter and sneakers squeaking against the pristine floor, but there’s also an obvious absence of sounds you’re used to hearing, like the lighthearted banter between Matsukawa and Hanamaki, the flippant trills and rumbling dips of Oikawa’s voice as he flits between seriousness and snark, the rise and fall of Iwaizumi’s shouts as he grumbles about something his captain has done. Things continue down below as normal, but everything’s changed. That uneasy feeling from a few days before comes back in full force, and you slip away unnoticed.

This disquieting feeling prevails—exemplifies, even—when Oikawa comes over to work on your project later that evening. It’s definitely only affecting you, as your partner acts absolutely and utterly normal; he offers his own suggestions to something you’ve outlined, occasionally lacing his comments with the bit of humored teasing you’ve become so acquainted with. As he checks his social media, you watch him quietly, uncertainly. After a few moments he finally addresses it. “No one’s died,” he says simply. His words are pretty flat, and when he looks up from his phone his eyes have that same quality about them, slightly unimpressed but also full of stark clarity.

You falter slightly, embarrassment creeping up. “Sorry,” you apologize, though you know it’s not necessary to do so. You pause, then—“Are you okay?”

Oikawa hums. He isn’t looking at you, but you can tell with how he’s stilled that he did indeed hear you and is mulling your question over. The brunette is quiet for a bit before murmuring, “Nothing’s changed, everything’s changed—regardless, we move forward.” He then smirks dryly. “Time is tragedy’s friend.”

It’s cryptic, but you get it. So you don’t bring it up anymore, and gradually your uncertainty and hesitation melt away as Oikawa switches the subject, starting with a proposal to change your cellphone plan for your Budget Project, and eventually segueing into something about aromatherapy, which you find weird until you remember that you smelt like a grandma thanks to Umeko.

Come Sunday you’re back again in the Sendai City Gymnasium. It occurs to you that you’ve been to this stadium more times just this past month than you have been in literal years: first it was due to Umeko’s Intercollegiate Prelims at the beginning of the month, then last week it was for the volleyball semifinals—though you’re not really sure if that one counts considering the brevity of your “visit” (nor are you quite sure you even _want_ to count it)—and now here you are for your final event in Dance Club, the Fall Prefectural. Your grand finale, your last hurrah, your swan song.

...And you’re doing it all as a bystander, hidden in the stands.

At the event you sit sandwiched between your sister and Haruto, both of whom are attracting attention—Umeko is obviously getting recognized for being _the_ (Surname) Umeko (a common occurrence at any dance-related gathering), and Haruto is getting looks because he is exuding an aura that screams “I want to be anywhere but here right now” (which he’s been doing ever since Coach Takai told him he couldn’t quit until after the Prefectural). As Umeko busies herself with talking to some starstruck fans, Haruto peruses the program and snorts when he comes across the Pairs roster. He nudges you in the side, murmuring, “Just think—it could have been _us_ performing today.”

The sarcasm is light, not meant to be taken seriously at all—yet for some reason it strikes a painful chord within you, the words resonating deep in your heart. You say nothing as Haruto continues to scan through the glossy pages that feature the names of your peers worthy enough to qualify for Prefecturals; you’re silent as Umeko chats eagerly about all the competitions she’s been in—and won—this past year. And suddenly, unexplainably, you feel overwhelmed. So you excuse yourself quietly, needing to be free from being stuck between an ardent genius who cares too much and an unmotivated amateur who cares too little.

You watch the Prefectural alone, tucked away towards the back of the stadium where few people tread. From your vantage point, you can see everything clearly—these are the best seats in the house, in your opinion. Funny how everyone always wants to be close to the action when sometimes it’s best to be far away, where everything is displayed in a vast expanse. That way you can see.

You can see how an old man puffs with pride when his granddaughter comes up to perform with her dance team, her youthful face brimming with excited anticipation. You remember that feeling, that nervous joy that comes with showcasing each of your precious routines. You can see how a mother swipes at her eyes when her son performs a passionate duet with his partner. You remember people telling you how moved they were by your performances. You can see the way Minami’s smile lights up her whole face at the end of her solo, how she beams with pride at the fact that she accomplished what she set out to do. _I did it_ , her expression tells you. _I did it._

You remember feeling that way three years ago. You remember looking up into Tatsuya’s eyes when they announced you won Best Pairs Dance, clutching onto him tightly. _We did it_ , you remember saying. _We did it._

 _We_. Always _we_ , never _you and me_.

...

Takamaki-san is the last competitor to dance. She’s a beautiful girl, with long limbs that always help add a layer of gracefulness whenever she’s performing with Tatsuya—but alone it’s a very different story. Although her choreography is a bit more fluid now than the last time you saw it, it’s still clear that she’s not entirely comfortable performing on her own. There’s a sense of uncertainty in her dance, a slightly wavering quality to all her movements… but she’s still trying, and that’s all that really matters. For the past two years she has dedicated herself to strictly being Tatsuya’s follow and nothing more; in fact, before Takai became coach she probably didn’t dedicate much time outside of dance practice to work on her solo technique. It’s a shame, really—all pair dancers should find their own personal “groove,” their own sense of self outside of their partner—but you get it. With such a talented lead as Tatsuya, of course you’re going to get sucked into his world, of course that connection is strong and alluring and that’s the only thing you need, of course he can you lead wherever because you’re going to follow, it’s not _you and me_ but _we_ , always _we—_

…

You find him in the stands easily, tall, lanky body leaned over the railing and Easy Smile curled beautifully across his tanned face as he watches his partner with fondness. You still don’t really get why he and Takamaki are not performing together… but then again that’s not really something you feel the need to go out of your way to find out, nor do you really want to. You certainly know why he’s not performing solo—Tatsuya has never been very keen on competing in things involving just one person. _I want it to be about us_ , he’d tell you with a smile. _Only us_. _Not you, not me… just us._

…

Well, whatever. They’ll probably just perform in January’s Spring Prefectural. More than likely they’ll be the only third years to do so, too, for the rest of you will have retired, quit, been kicked out, resigned—whatever you want to call it, the rest of you will have moved on, having gotten the chance to wrap up Dance Club with this final display at the Fall Prefectural. The culmination of time and talent, the _pièce de résistance_.

But not you. You… you don’t get that opportunity. And… And that’s…

…

…

You go back to your seat just as the awards are being presented, only half-listening to what’s being said over the intercom. No one from Aoba Johsai ends up qualifying for Nationals, but as you look upon the faces of your peers who performed, you realize that no one is crestfallen—sure, the tiniest bit of disappointment casts itself onto their faces, but it’s easily overshadowed by the sheer joy of competition, by the pride of their accomplishments. Even Takai doesn’t look as sour as you thought he’d be; his features remain stern as the results are read out, but when the ceremony is over you catch the small, proud smirk that flits onto his face as he goes to talk with your clubmates. It’s funny, you realize—every competitor from the Aoba Johsai Dance Club was a loser today, and yet at the same time they’re all winners.

And you cannot relate in the slightest.

…

…

…

It’s not the first realization of the day… but it’s the one that hurts the most, echoing painfully in your heart long after you’ve left the Sendai City Gymnasium.

* * *

You know that other than Haruto, you’re the last one anyone would assume to show up to dance practice after the Fall Prefectural—but show up you do, a juxtaposition of bold self-consciousness as you walk through those studio doors, head held high while hands pick at the seam of your black jacket. Although you see many eyebrows raise at your unexpected presence, none of your clubmates say anything; they go about like normal, acting as if nothing’s changed. In a way that makes it worse, because you know that everyone knows things have changed—but then you remind yourself of why you’re here… and although that small feeling of anxious insecurity never fully leaves, you find that your quiet conviction eases the self-worry just the slightest.

The only person who really acknowledges that something’s different is Takai, whose dark eyes flash when you first walk in. There’s a cryptic smirk on his face as he walks up to you, arms crossed against his broad chest. “Well well well,” he says, voice smooth and low, “what a surprise. Here to make your retirement announcement a foolish spectacle like Sakano did?” (Haruto announced his retirement the literal minute the Prefectural ended—the moment the emcees wished everyone a good day and turned off the intercom, your partner walked straight up to the railing, waved hastily at Coach Takai, and shouted loud and clear for all to hear, “Now that the Fall Prefectural is over and I am free, it is with great satisfaction that I, Sakano Haruto, hereby declare my retirement from Dance Club. Thank you, and goodbye forever.”)

You shake your head in response. “No, Coach,” you say, voice quiet but clear as you tilt your head in a small bow. “I was hoping to stay for three more practices, if that’s okay…”

“Three? That’s specific.” Again Takai’s eyes flash, sparking with intrigue and something else you don’t quite catch. “Why?”

Because that’s all you can allow yourself. Three more practices until you finally let go, three more practice until you _can_ let go, three more practices, just a little bit more time—

But instead all you say is “I’d… I’d like to dance for just a bit longer.”

You’re met with silence. When you look up, Takai’s face is neutral… but there’s a depth of contemplation there, a seriousness that you’re not used to seeing on his normally-stern face. It reminds you of when Momo is photographing inanimate objects and she adjusts the angle of the subject by less than an inch. “Why do you do that?” you would ask. “You barely moved it—does it make that much of a difference?”

And Momo’s response every time would be a bright smile as she showed you her two shots—same subject, but completely different picture. “Sometimes,” she would say, “the smallest of things can make the biggest impact on one’s perception.”

Suddenly Takai smirks, air whooshing out of his mouth as he gives a soft, short chuckle. “Interesting,” he murmurs. He begins to walk away from you, hand waving about nonchalantly. “Three practices it is, then. Dance away.”

And so you do. For three practices you dance, letting go. You dance alone, you dance with others. You dance to say farewell, you dance to mourn the ending you don’t get. That tiny Urge inside you craves the life it was deprived of for two years, two years of plateauing, two years of being aimless and alone. It sputters and flickers, frightened and weak… but it blooms nonetheless, and with it comes a quiet Joy that you haven’t felt in years. That Joy surrounds you, lifts you up. It yanks on that chain anchoring you down, pulling you up from the depths, just a bit closer to the surface, your fingers almost reaching—

But that Joy’s not consistent, and the surface stays just out of reach.

And when the third practice comes and goes, your time is up.

The sun has started its descent when Takai concludes practice, and ever-so-slowly the room illuminates with natural brilliance, beautiful rays of setting sunshine that sparkle against the dull beige walls. You wish your fellow clubmates a goodnight and smile drily at the “See you Monday”s that are sent your way, watching as the numbers slowly dwindle down. Normally Takai is one of the first people to leave but today he lingers, leaning against the wall of mirrors. You’re sure he’s waiting for you, probably anticipating what’s to come. You still find yourself taking more time to pack up your things, allowing yourself to fully feel the weight of goodbye resting upon your shoulders.

It’s a strange thing, this quiet disappointment you hold. It’s not an aching hole in your chest, it’s not a searing pain filled with anger or sadness or any other strong emotion. It’s more like a muted throb, sighs of _What if_ and _If only_. Because that’s the crux of it all, isn’t it? What if you could have somehow rediscovered your full love for dance, what if you could have reclaimed it back after all these years? If only that were the case, if only you tried a bit har—

But wait, no. That last thought—that last one is something you refuse to let yourself feel. Because you _did_ try. Maybe it was just only for two short months, maybe it wasn’t good enough…  
  


_“It’s not good enough.”_

_“But you’re still trying.”_

_“I am still trying.”  
  
_

But you still tried… and for that you feel proud.

 _Pride_. You haven’t come across that in a very long time.

You wish you could have experienced it for just a bit longer.

But… you guess it just wasn’t meant to be.

_“Nothing’s changed, everything’s changed—regardless, we move forward.”_

…But…

…

…

You hear Takai cluck his tongue, an impatient noise. So you stand slowly, knowing that you’ve run out of time, and turn to face him. There’s a lump in your throat and you find it suddenly a bit difficult to talk. But you persist, knowing what needs to be said even though you know deep down inside you’re not ready to say goodbye just yet. “Coach Takai,” you say thickly, “I—”

“I’d like to ask you something first.” Takai’s words slice through the room, cutting you off. Half of him is drenched in shadows, giving his face a sharp, severe quality that matches his normal temperament—but his eyes lack any mean-spiritedness, instead looking at you with that same contemplation you saw from before. “Three practices,” he states. “Did you accomplish what you set out to do with those three practices?”

Three practices to say farewell, to accept your own _sayonara_. Three practices to give it your all, to try one last time to see if you could reclaim your love for dance back. You thought it would be enough, and yet here you stand, the goodbyes heavy on your tongue and your Urge still small and underfed. You frown, looking down. “No,” you murmur softly. “Nothing’s changed.”

Your coach is quiet for a moment. But then he speaks, voice strong and clear. “Yet everything’s changed.”

You look up, surprised. He’s watching you, eyes sharp and serious. “Tell me,” Takai continues, “what does it mean to have _passion_?”

You blink, frown deepening. It’s one of those things that’s so easy to spot and to label… but what does it mean, really? “To have passion…” you start, for once speaking carefully as you think out loud. “To have passion… is to be unafraid to try things differently, to do things just because you can.”

Umeko.

“It’s to always look for opportunities to push yourself, not letting the fear of the unknown stop you.”

Momo.

“To have passion means to keep trying, no matter what. An insatiable desire to pursue…”

Oikawa.

And you get it.

“It’s a fire,” you conclude simply. “That’s what passion really is.”

Takai smirks. “A fire,” he echoes. “Interesting how people always say that when talking about _passion_. But it makes sense, doesn’t it?” Your coach looks to the setting sun, face awash with gold. “It’s something that flickers, something that comes and goes—but when it’s there it’s powerful, bright, and you can’t help but notice.”

It does make sense, because even though the term is different, you’ve felt that fire before. Your fingers twitch, much like they did when you felt that Urge all those months ago.

The conversation rolls forward. “It was a snap judgment,” Takai starts, slowly turning his head to look back at you, “but when I first met you, I thought you were going to be a carbon copy of your sister. I mean, can you blame me? You two look _exactly_ alike. I’m sure you get that a lot, don’t you?”

You feel your mouth twitch upwards wryly. “It’s common,” you say, though that’s an understatement. You can’t even think of how many times incorrect assumptions have been made about you merely because you’re related to someone like Umeko. Takai hums in response, a strange noise that sounds both amused and annoyed.

“But nothing could be further from the truth, no?” he queries. “You were nothing like her at all—and that’s a double-edged sword. Personality-wise, it’s a good thing. Umeko is loud, annoying… an Umeboshi”—you catch the quick, amused smirk that flies to his face before he smothers it—“and you’re quiet, a wallflower… Princessy, in a way.”

You frown; what’s up with everyone always using _princess_? Your coach continues, pulling you back. “But it’s not just your personality.” The corners of his mouth pinch down sourly. “You were also the opposite of her when it came to dance. And honestly? That was one of the biggest disappointments to me.”

You know he’s not alluding to Umeko’s talent level. You know he’s not expecting you to be a genius—he never was.

 _“—you lack confidence, you lack drive, you lack_ passion. _There’s nothing I dislike more than someone who has natural, raw talent, but who decides to waste it for absolutely no good reason.”_

The silence is thick, weighted. Suddenly your palms sting; when you look down you realize that your hands are clenched together tightly, nails embedding pretty little half-moons into your skin. You hate it.

“But then, maybe about two months or so ago,” your coach says quietly, “you changed.”

You look up again. Takai’s eyes are molten gold in the light, piercing and unwavering. “I don’t know what happened, nor do I really care to know,” he says, voice just as intense as his gaze. “But that’s when I began to see it, that little fire of yours. It was weak, almost nonexistent… but it was there. And I still see it, lingering beneath the surface.”

The declaration seeps deep into your bones, embedding itself into your soul and refusing to let go. Your heart flutters in your chest, but it comes to a full stop when he speaks his next words, words you thought you’d never hear:

“The Spring Prefectural is at the beginning of the year, in early- to mid-January. I want you to compete.”

The air whooshes out of your lungs in one fell swoop. Everything brightens. The tips of your fingers tingle, and suddenly you become keenly aware of every sight, smell, sound in the room—it all etches itself into your brain, memory locking in every minute detail of this very moment. “I—what?” Your eyes are wide and saucer-like. “Really?”

The smile on Takai’s face curdles a bit in annoyance, but you don’t mind. “Yes _really_. Why would I waste my time saying things I don’t mean—”

His voice becomes a wash of sound. Euphoria starts to rush in as you begin to process, a wide smile forcing itself up onto your face as your brain swirls and twirls with fast, rushing thoughts.

Is this the chance you need? You’ll have more time to nurture your fire, to find your love of dance again, will your passion come back? How will you dance? Haruto already retired, would Takai force him to come back, is that even possible, maybe Haruto would come back willingly if you asked nicely? Or—or would Takai allow you to dance solo? You were never given the opportunity to do so before, you hadn’t wanted it, hadn’t needed it, but that’s okay you can learn now, but what about Entrance Exams—but this could be a chance to _prove_ yourself, you’re being offered more time, it doesn’t have to be over yet, more time to dance, you don’t have to say farewell just yet, one more chance to dance, one step closer, this is your chance you can feel your fingertips just about to break the surface—

“—with Tatsuya—"

And suddenly you’re tugged back down under, a harsh and swift motion that has you gasping for air.

Your gaze snaps to Takai. “W…What?”

He narrows his eyes, displeased. That curdled smile now seems so harsh, so severe. You suddenly start to feel ill. “You’ve worked with Tatsuya before?” he says. It’s poised as a question, but you know it’s anything but.

The room suddenly seems to collapse in on itself, boxing you in. Your mouth feels dry, papery. Your voice is barely a whisper as you murmur, “Yes.”

“How long?”

“…Almost ten years,” you respond. Everything begins to dim, becoming muted and blurring together around you. The only thing you can see clearly is Takai, who’s watching you with that harsh, sour frown.

“I thought as much,” answers Takai. He says it so matter-of-factly, as if talking about the weather.

It’s obvious where this is going, but it can’t go there. Please no. You sink deeper under the surface. “But—But it’s been two years—”

A hand comes up, silencing you. “It doesn’t matter,” he says. You know he doesn’t mean it like that, but those three simple words slap you across the face, rendering you speechless. Again, you sink further.

Takai puts his hand down. He looks back out the window as he begins to speak, the words barely audible over the rushing in your ears. “Your performance at Dance Camp was… rare,” he starts, voice surprisingly sincere. “It was special, it was intimate… Honestly, it was breathtaking. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen two dancers _click_ as well as you two did. Now I understand why, but even then… finding that sort of connection with someone is something all dancers crave. It’s something we dream of, and very few of us get it.

“But how well you did wasn’t all just because of Tatsuya—it was because of _you_ , too. You were being led, yes… but the way you followed was graceful, passionate… it evoked a lot of emotion. I was baffled.” Takai chuckles softly, and the sound adds to the noise in your ears. “I thought it was some fluke, some freak occurrence—because from what I had seen of you, there’s no way _you_ could have done something like _that_. But my gut said something different. It said that there was something there, that you had passion, that you could use the talent I knew you had… You just needed the right time to bloom it.”

Bloom. That word had come to mean something special to you, but now you find it’s being twisted, its meaning distorting into something cheap, perverted, worthless—

You sink further.

“When the time came to choose routines for the Fall Prefectural, something very surprising happened: Takamaki expressed interest in dancing solo. At first I was taken aback, but then she told me she’d been thinking about it since the beginning of the year—in fact, she’d been working on her own solo routine since the moment I told everyone about Prefecturals at the beginning of the year!” Takai sounds impressed. And it is something that should be lauded; Takamaki wanted the chance to showcase herself, not just her and Tatsuya—a brave feat, always _we_ , never _you and me_ —

“Still my first thought was immediately _no_ ,” your coach continues, sighing. “Unfortunately at these sorts of competitions, a dancer is limited to performing just one routine—really a dumb rule, I don’t understand why they all insist on following this—but anyway, if she were to perform on her own, that would leave Tatsuya partnerless for the Fall Prefectural. And although I already knew that he wasn’t planning on retiring, Takamaki was… So that left him partnerless for the Spring Prefectural, too. Following?”

Yes, no—maybe. You don’t know. But it doesn’t matter if it’s crystal clear or if the logic’s twisted and convoluted, because where it’s going is obvious and petrifying. Rattle goes that chain, a tug tug tug, and you keep sinking…

“But what a shame it would be not to showcase our best dancer, right? So you can see my dilemma. Honestly all of this would have been fine if he would just compete solo… Stubborn boy.”

 _I want it to be about us_. _Only us_. _Not you, not me… just us._

“But Takamaki showed me the solo routine she’d been working on—and although it was wobbly, I saw the potential. So I started thinking of my options.” Takai waves his hand in the air. “Finding someone willing to work with Tatsuya for the Fall Prefectural wouldn’t have been an issue, but that would leave very little time to create and polish a brand new routine—so I cast that aside and began to think about the future. Now if I could find him a new partner right after the Fall Prefectural ended, there’d be just enough time to prepare for the Spring. So with that as an option, it was time to move onto _whom_.” Takai looks at you briefly, smirking. “And then I remembered you."

Down you go…

“But what you had done was a fluke, right? After all, you hadn’t changed in the slightest since. I saw absolutely no iteration of the dancer from Dance Camp, plus I was almost 100% certain you were going to retire after the Fall Prefectural. There’s no way you could be a viable option, right? But your and Tatsuya’s dance kept coming to mind over and over; soon that gut feeling came back, this time stronger than before. ‘Deep down there’s an urge to dance,’ it said. ‘Just give it time to bloom. It will come. Wait and watch.’ And so, despite everything logical in me saying, ‘ _NO, this is a bad idea_ ,’ I decided to go with my gut—because that instinctual feeling we all have will never steer you wrong,” Takai explains.

“So I decided to let Takamaki dance solo, and I waited. It was a big gamble… and just when I thought that maybe I had made a huge mistake, suddenly that fire of yours bloomed right before my very eyes—tiny, weak, quiet, but flickering courageously nonetheless.” Takai’s eyes flash. “And I knew it would be enough.”

Down down down…

“But I still didn’t know if you were going to continue,” says Takai. “Okay great, you were starting to show that passion that I knew was in you—but would that be enough for you to stay? The only third years I knew who wanted to stay on after the Fall Prefectural were those who were really passionate, like Tatsuya—”

Momo’s words, spoken in Tokyo, come to mind: _“Guess it’s an easier decision to make when you have passion. Or if you have something to prove.”_

“—and maybe I should have asked sooner, that way you could have started working with Tatsuya sooner… but again, something said, ‘No, don’t. Wait.’”

It was a smart move. Had he asked earlier, the answer would have been an automatic _no_. The thought sounds egregious—you, stay on? _You_ , who had passion that was weak and fickle, flickering and barely alive? You, who was not going to succeed, was not going to conquer, was not going to make it to the top? No way. You knew your longwinded story was fated to just end uneventfully, to fade away like a whisper. You had decided that it was going to be okay to just let yourself try for the last two months of it all, to try to make the most of the time you had left.

You knew your time was coming to an end, and you had prepared for it. You, stay on—how laughable.

…But then the Fall Prefectural came, and you weren’t laughing in the slightest.

“So you waited,” you find yourself whispering. Your voice is raw, cracking with emotion. If Takai notices he doesn’t say anything, still staring out that damn window while you sink to the bottom of the ravine.

“So I waited,” he confirms. “Then last week you walked in, and now here we are.” He looks at you now, arms spreading wide. “I would like you and Tatsuya to perform together again,” he declares. “I believe that he can lead you well, and that you both can succeed and grow in this competition.”

There it is, laid out in front of you.

You reach the very bottom of that dark abyss. The chain curls around your whole body, and you fall on the sandy floor, unable to move.

There’s a strange buzzing in your ear, a ringing that won’t go away. You heard every single word of Takai’s explanation, and still you can’t discern if it made sense. All you know is that Takai wants you to perform with Tatsuya again, always we, we we _we we we_ —

Your silence speaks for you. You don’t know how long the two of you stay wrapped in that awful quiet, but when it’s clear you aren’t going to say anything your coach speaks. “Three practices ago,” he starts, “I asked why you wanted to stay. You said you wanted to dance for just a bit longer.” He pauses, and then: “If that’s what you still want, here’s your chance.”

His voice has a complex depth to it. It’s mostly annoyance that you hear, more than likely at your lack of response—but there are also notes of confusion and honesty, too. And that’s when you realize that Takai really has absolutely no idea of your history with Tatsuya. He’s proposing this idea because he earnestly believes it’s a good choice—not just because of the circumstances, but because he honestly, sincerely believes this would make both you and Tatsuya grow, that it would give you the chance to fly high.

Always _we,_ never _you and me._

You still don’t speak, so Takai makes his move to leave. “Think about it for a few days,” he murmurs as he passes by. “Tatsuya already agreed, so the ball’s in your court.”

There are no words—you don’t know what to say. You hear the studio door creak open, but it never closes.

“(Surname),” calls Takai.

You turn to look at him. His face is hard, stern like always. “You aren’t a genius,” he murmurs quietly, “but you have raw talent. Don’t waste it.”

And then he’s gone.

…

…

…

The minutes tick by as you stand in the studio alone, surrounded by beautiful light yet feeling none of the warmth it provides. Your breathing is calm, steady—how strange. But it’s what you focus on to pull yourself back to the present, back out of your thoughts. In, out. In, out.

And you begin to process.

It’s the Butterfly Effect, you realize. The smallest of ripples in the water has somehow created a wave. Dancing with Tatsuya during Dance Camp was just supposed to be an unfortunate coincidence. Trying to make the most of the time you had left was just that, nothing more. Giving yourself three practices was supposed to just be an elongated goodbye, one last final attempt to accept you’d never get the finale you realized you craved.

_“You said you wanted to dance for just a bit longer.”_

You pinch your lips together tightly. You’re not smiling, you’re not frowning; you’re just…

Beamed sunlight hits your face like a soft kiss, and you look to the tall windows. The world drips in hues of burnt red and honey gold, an exquisite amber sunset. A memory from distant past tugs at you; you let it sweep you away, not having the energy to fight.

( _“Hey.”_

It’s the last day of middle school. He sits to your right on the bench, both of your diplomas clutched tightly in his fist. The air is crisp and sweet, filled with excitement and promise of opportunity. You look to him, smiling. He’s soaked in the colors of the setting sun, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen anyone more beautiful.

 _“When we were younger, do you remember telling me that sunsets were your favorite part of the day_ ,” he asks you, flitting those brown eyes—honey-gold in the sunset—to you, _“because they reminded you of me, and I was your favorite person?”_ There’s a teasing grin on his face.

You punch him gently, denying. _“There’s no way I’d ever be that cheesy!”_ you exclaim, though you remember exactly when you told him that. You were nine, he was ten. You were crying because some kids at dance were bullying you and calling you “Prune-chan” (“Prunes are just plums’ icky, knock-off, not-as-good sisters!”). He had found you in the park and had consoled you. He held your hand for thirty minutes.

He laughs, poking you in the side. You two wrestle for a bit before he folds you in his arms, gentle and warm. PDA is something you generally try to avoid, but this time around you don’t mind it as much. Silence envelops you both as you soak in the moment, letting every tiny detail absorb into your being—a snapshot of a perfect time, one that you don’t think you’ll ever want to forget.

 _“Hard to believe everything’s changing, huh?”_ you finally ask him, nodding to the diplomas. _“Feels like nothing’s changed.”_

He presses a kiss to your forehead, arms squeezing you a bit tighter. _“Nothing’s changed, everything’s changed,”_ he says in that lilting, accented voice of his. _“Regardless, we move forward_.”

 _“True,”_ you say, smiling as you rest your head on his shoulder. _“Aoba Johsai, huh? What do you think will be in store for us there?”_

 _“Lots of disappointments and revelations, I’m sure_ ,” he responds. You feel his chest rumble again when you grumble about how he sounds way too smart for his own good. _“But all that matters is that we’ll be together_ , amore mio _. You and me.”_

 _“Yeah.”_ The word is weighted, full of emotion. _“We will.”_ )

…

…

…

You close your eyes, breathing softly.

A gentle breeze suddenly tickles at your cheek. One of the windows must be open; someone must have forgotten to shut it. You hear bicycle bells ringing, the swaying of trees, shouts of goodbye and mirthful laughter. You are stuck, wordless after receiving an earth-shattering gift, a crude present wrapped in a neat little bow; but outside, the world continues on, none the wiser. It’s slightly poetic, you think—how funny that everything’s changed for you, but the rest of the world mills about, unaffected because nothing’s changed for them.

You breathe in.

You rarely hear Tatsuya’s voice in your head anymore, but his presence is steadfast, always looming under the surface. Time is tragedy’s friend, sure; slowly but surely the ache of suffering eases with the tick of a clock… but sometimes memories can be haunting. Sometimes they have the ability to supersede time, anchoring themselves deep within your heart and keeping you under.

And you breathe out.

The world moves forward, completely and blissfully unaware.  
  


* * *

  
Oikawa can hear Umeko’s shouting even before he reaches the door.

“ _You!_ You’ve always had a bunch of shitty ideas, but I have to say this one—You have a whole damn school of kids, and you choose the two that don—I don’t _care_ if the majority of them can’t dance, _teaching them is a better idea than what you proposed, Ass-kai!”_

Oof. Oikawa hesitates just the slightest at the entrance, fist raised to knock. The elder (Surname) continues her tirade, feet pounding on the floor—sounds like she’s doing laps between the entryway and the living room. The brunette suddenly feels like maybe coming back later would be a good idea—he _is_ early, after all—but a rush of cold air whooshes past, and Oikawa decides staying out in the cold isn’t worth it.

“I am _not_ being an Umeboshi and _don’t call me_ that horrendous nickname, umeboshi is _great—_ ”

He knocks, three hearty pounds against the door.

“—it’s not my fault you have shitty taste buds—Hold on.”

The door is opened swiftly and forcefully. Oikawa is taken aback at the ire on Umeko’s face, but it’s quickly coated in a thin layer of pleasantry when the dancer realizes who’s in front of her. “Hi Tooru-kun,” Umeko says, opening the door a bit wider. “(Name)’s upstairs—oh my gods, _shut up_!” The irritation comes back in full force as she focuses her attention back on her call, small frame quickly disappearing around the living room corner. “Are you incapable of not arguing with me for one sec— _No!_ I don’t care how long they worked together! I don’t care about your smelly gut!”

More oof. Oikawa quickly takes off his shoes and meanders upstairs to find you. Your door is closed (which he finds odd because you always keep it open) and barely any light filters from the crack at the bottom. Again the setter gets the odd sense that maybe he should come back later—the air in the house feels tense, Off, and Oikawa starts to think maybe he’s stumbled into something he’s not necessarily supposed to have seen—but he’s already knocking at your door, this time a bit softer.

“Come in” comes the muffled call, so Oikawa does. He sees you laying on your bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. The only light in the room comes from your bedside lamp, the luminescence weak and swallowed by the looming shadows in every corner. He flicks on the overhead light as you slip your eyes to him. “Your sister seems to be in a good mood,” Oikawa comments sarcastically, walking over to your coffee table.

“A ray of sunshine,” you confirm, rolling your eyes. You sit up, and Oikawa is struck by how weary you look. It’s very normal for you to look tired—but today it goes further than skin-deep, almost as if it’s coming from your soul, your very existence. The brunette finds himself frowning, but before he can consider commenting you tilt your head to your alarm clock. “You’re here early.”

He’s also here on a Thursday, but that one’s to be expected. Since his defeat a few weeks ago quite a bit has changed—you and he now meet two to three days a week, he now scrimmages with nearby university teams and local community clubs… Tragedy had struck, but things move forward. “The pick-up games were over really quick,” he tells you. “25-20 and 25-21 for the first, and 25-14 and 25-17 for the second.”

You hum, moving to sit across from him. “Were you on the winning team?”

“Isn’t it obvious~?” Oikawa quips with a haughty smirk, putting on airs as he runs his hand through his hair. He’s expecting some slightly-annoyed retort like normal—but instead you surprise him by remaining silent, opening your notebook as if you hadn’t even heard him. The ex-captain feels some of his fake bravado slip away; he blinks at you but remains silent, eyebrows furrowing just the slightest. That Off feeling comes back again, this time lingering like fog.

Umeko is still arguing downstairs, the words muffled but audible. Her conversation has many strange, jarring turns—there’s talk of Salonpas and failing grades, of Ass-kais and the Spirit of Miyagi (whatever that means). But it always eventually floats back to yells of frustration and declarations of some monumental mistake that Oikawa doesn’t necessarily understand. You’re staring at your books like the studious student you are, but your eyes are unfocused, mouth pinched downward into an unhappy frown. It’s very obvious that you’re honed in on what’s happening downstairs; Oikawa doesn’t blame you, considering he finds himself doing the same thing.

Umeko’s voice gets increasingly louder, and it’s only when she shouts “ _Why isn’t it a good idea?_ Well let me tell you—” that you’ve apparently had enough. You quickly clap your hands together, drawing the setter’s attention to you. Your expression melts into one of geniality, and you say, “Okay! I’m going to grab a coffee before we start—do you want anything?” There’s a sense of urgency to your words, also reflected in the way you stand up with haste. You stare at Oikawa with intense pleasantness, your own Pleasant Mask. It throws him off.

“Ah, water’s fine, thanks…” Oikawa mumbles, and you nod quickly before rushing down the stairs. Shortly thereafter there are hushed, harsh whispers—and although Oikawa knows he really shouldn’t listen out of respect for you, he finds that he really can’t help it.

“ _Oneesan_ , can you please not do this right now?”

“Sorry—Shigeru, I’ll either call you back or block your number. Haven’t decided yet.” There’s the sound of a phone being lobbed onto couch cushions. “I’m sorry, (Name); I didn’t know he didn’t know, I mean I know it’s not common knowledge but even then I didn’t think this would—”

“I really can’t talk about this right now—”

“Of course, sorry! Here—I’ll start some coffee for you, we can even use the expensive beans—”

Shortly thereafter you come up with a glass of water. You hand it to Oikawa with a smile, one that’s so blatantly fake that it causes his stomach to twist. “Sorry,” you say, voice coated with a sickening amount of sugar. You keep that smile on your face as you once again sit across from him. “Where were we?”

Oikawa ignores your question completely, staring at you with sharp focus. “Is everything okay?” he asks.

The smile falters for a split second, almost imperceptibly so—but Oikawa catches it nonetheless, and he absolutely, utterly hates it. “Yeah,” you lie. One hand starts fiddling with the links in your sweater, and he finds that he hates that, too. “It’s just been a long day,” you explain, giving a small, fake laugh. “I need coffee.”

Oikawa wants to challenge your claim, to call you out… but he sees the way that weariness wraps itself around you tightly, a suffocating hug. So he lets it be, the curiosity and concern tucking itself away for the time being. The tension in the air gradually thins out as the two of you begin to work; he even gets a few dry remarks from you as he sends quip after quip in your direction (“You’re never going to be able to sleep,” he tells you when Umeko brings up a giant mug of coffee, to which you respond, “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”).

But despite all this, you continue to be blanketed in a layer of Off. It’s like looking at someone underwater—it’s easy to tell who it is, but they’re distorted just enough that sometimes one second-guesses who one’s looking at. You’re not all there tonight, attention wandering every-which-way. Oikawa catches you staring at your wall of photos more than once, eyes flickering with muted memories.

The setter never really paid much attention to the decorations in your room before—sure, you have a few miscellaneous things scattered about that personalize the space, but for the most part it’s just a standard Western-style room, with all the typical things you’d expect a high schooler to have. He knew you had a small collection of photos on your wall, but had never really cared enough to actually look; today, however, he finds himself gazing at the wall as well, trying to figure out what’s causing you to reminisce so heavily.

Unsurprisingly there are many photos of you and your family; Oikawa recognizes the one that he first saw on your Instagram, where you sport an _amazing_ bowl cut. He sees plenty of you and Momorin that have been taken throughout your years of friendship—some look recent, but then there are others from way back in your childhood (like the one where the two of you are holding violins, probably from during your time in that Baby Orchestra you were talking about). Quite a few pictures are just of your cats, and—and is that _Ushiwaka_ in one of them, holding Hachi calmly while you struggle to hold Nana—

And then there’s one in the top corner that catches Oikawa’s attention the most. You look to be maybe thirteen or fourteen years old, young face set with joy as you grin at the camera with a wide, breathtaking smile. It’s quite a lovely photo of you, the brunette finds. You’re posing with someone, arms wrapped around them tightly in a fierce, proud hug; one of their arms wraps itself around your shoulders while the other is holding a bright, shiny trophy that reads ‘Best Pairs’ in bold script across the front. Oikawa’s eyes flit up to your companion’s face, wondering who it is—

—only to find that there _is_ no face. You’ve ripped it out, a crude, jagged circle that completely changes the meaning of the photo.

Oikawa stares at it for a very long time, processing. It’s only when you ask him a question about taxes that he rips his gaze away so as not to be caught, but if you noticed it does not show across your face. He answers your queries with ease, deciding to just focus on the task in front of him—but he keeps finding himself looking back to that photo, looking at your proud smile and at the harsh rip that mars the surface.

And the most he looks, the more he starts to feel Off himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chonky chonky 8k, sorry. You know this was meant to be maybe only about 4k (LOL that's still long what am I saying) but then like two days ago my brain told me to redo EVERYTHING... so I did, and here we are :D I feel like it's kind of a vague chapter sry. it's kind of meant to be but maybe it's too much?? 
> 
> But this is where stuff gets fun, where things from previous chapters begin to slowly tie together!!! I need to start using my pea brain more lol.
> 
> Also, I'm going to have to start adding disclaimers more and more as we move into this next arc lol - we're moving into themes that I have tried to research to the best of my ability but am not necessarily the most knowledgeable about, so first disclaimer! I am not a dancer (unless we count dancing and singing in the shower lol) so please excuse any mistakes now or in the future regarding anything dance-related. :)
> 
> OKay thanks for reading! Hope everyone's staying safe, and see you in the next chapter xoxo


	17. Inky Black Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I feel like a part of my soul has loved you since the beginning of everything._
> 
> _Maybe we’re from the same star.”_ ― Emery Allen

Oikawa’s a mere two-minute walk from your doorstep when his phone chimes with an incoming text, a cheery sound that breaks through the quiet chill of late autumn. When the brunette sees it’s you who’s texted him, he assumes you’re just complaining about how he’s taking his time arriving like normal—it was a common complaint of yours back when you waited for him after practice (him being slow was mostly unintentional, though he _does_ have to admit there were a few times he loitered just to push your buttons), and now that you’re meeting at each other’s houses he frequently shows up at least fifteen minutes past the designated meeting time (again, mostly unintentional… but occasionally he’ll show up late on purpose, if not just for consistency’s sake)—but instead he’s greeted with a slightly apologetic message:

 **(name)-chan:** _going to be a bit late, sorry – lost track of time helping momo-chan with her uni portfolio  
_**(name)-chan:** _I let_ oneesan _know you’ll be there before me so she’s expecting you, you can just hang with her for a bit if you want  
_**(name)-chan:** _tbh she prob needs your company anyway cause she’s old, single and lonely_

Oikawa sighs softly, his breath misting in the frosty air. A small smirk comes to his face at that last text despite the slight tinge of annoyance he feels at the (very minor) inconvenience of your tardiness—but then he reminds himself that he’s being hypocritical… and besides, it actually might be better this way. It’s been a few days since that unsettling, Off meeting of yours, and although you seem to be fine at school—head down, taking notes diligently, only a few dry remarks thrown his way when he instigates a conversation saturated with quips and witty commentary—the setter can tell that whatever happened still lays heavily on your mind, like a looming cloud that refuses to go away. You haven’t provided any explanation so far and he hasn’t asked; that being said, the curiosity tinged with concern lingers like Oikawa’s own personal, annoying cloud. And last night, after he realized he was thinking about it _again_ (marking it as the fourth time that day… but who’s counting), he decided it was time to do something about it.

But Oikawa’s not going to you for answers. No, that’d be too easy, too straightforward. He wants to figure things out on his own; he wants to be the one to find where each and every puzzle piece fits. He wants a challenge.

(What he _doesn’t_ want is to admit the actual truth: he’s not even sure if he _wants_ to ask you, as the prospect of seeing you smile so pleasantly—so _plastically_ —again makes him feel very unsettled.)

But whatever, he’s not thinking about that last bit. After a moment your house comes into view; he sends a quick reply back as he makes his way to the front ( _My my my, how the tables have turned~_ ) before knocking a few times on the door, opening it with a breezy call of “Please excuse my interruption~”

Umeko’s response is immediate. “Hi, Tooru-kun!” she calls. “In the living room.”

Oikawa quickly slips off his shoes and makes his way to the lounge, where the elder (Surname) sits curled on the couch, coffee cradled in her hands as is expected. The setter lets an easy, friendly smile flit to his face as he says “Umeko-oneechan. Looking lovely as always~”

“Such a charmer!” your sister responds with a laugh. She leans forward with her chin in her palm, eyes animated. “How are things going? I feel like you’re over here all the time but I never really get to talk to you. (Name) keeping you busy, huh?”

Oikawa ignores the less-than-subtle wink she sends his way, waving his hand about nonchalantly. “We have a lot to work on, with this project and exam season around the corner,” he responds. “It’s a busy time of year for everyone.”

“And yet you still have time to keep up with volleyball _and_ mentor your nephew. Wow~” says Umeko with a hum.

That’s right, Oikawa’s seen the dancer around a few times at Lil’ Tykes Volleyball. In fact, Umeko _may_ have been the one that Takeru and his partner accidentally hit with a volleyball that one time during serve-and-receive drills when Oikawa walked away from supervising to answer a phone call (“Did you make sure to apologize, Takeru? Who was it, anyhow?” asked Oikawa on their way home, to which the younger Oikawa said “It was that really pretty lady who was laughing—you know, the one that occasionally shows up to talk to Chieko-sensei. And _I’m_ not the one who hit her; it was Eiichi’s fault for not receiving right.”)… but Oikawa’s not inclined to bring the incident up. He instead lets that Easy Smile of his widen, murmuring, “I do what I can~” Perhaps it’s a slight humblebrag, but it’s true nonetheless.

Umeko giggles lightly. It’s a tinkling and light sound, much like a windchime in the summertime—a familiar trill. There’s also a tiny smile on her lips, a sweet and genuine one—it’s a grin he’s seen before. Oikawa’s eyebrows furrow for a split second as he tries to recall why all of this feels so familiar, so comfortable… but then Umeko turns her rich (color) eyes towards him, pieces of (color) hair falling into her face, and he gets it. It’s because he’s reminded of you. It should have been obvious, really—you two have the exact same coloring, and the mannerisms and quirks are also very similar—but the setter finds that sometimes the extreme difference in personality completely overshadows any of the obvious comparisons in his mind. Umeko is the light side of the Moon, bright and brilliant, shining for all to see; you are the dark side of the same satellite, quiet and muted, staying hidden, masked—

_The smile falters for a split second, almost imperceptibly so—but Oikawa catches it nonetheless, and he absolutely, utterly hates it. “Yeah,” you lie. “It’s just been a long day.”_

“The other day,” he hears himself saying, “both you and (Name)-chan seemed like you had a lot going on. Is everything okay?”

The words tumble out on their own, autonomous thoughts. Oikawa finds himself frowning; it’s not often that his heart speaks before his brain does. It’s always a rather uncomfortable experience, he finds—emotions that he doesn’t want others to see become exposed during these small moments of vulnerability, threatening to crack the carefully crafted mask he’s constructed for the majority of the world. The setter tries to avoid it happening as much as possible… but as he was thinking about you and your own Off Pleasant Mask and how much he hates it, the unsettling worry just slipped out, exposed. Luckily Umeko doesn’t seem to think much of the concern that’s been revealed, unaware of how it’s been plaguing him for days. As Oikawa collects himself the dancer sighs heavily, running a hand through her hair. Her lighthearted mood begins to ebb away, replaced by something a bit more solemn.

“Is everything okay? For me, yeah. For (Name)… We’ll see.” Umeko shrugs, mouth pinched. She pauses for a moment before muttering, “This is all stupid Shigeru’s fault.”

That last bit is muffled, more than likely a comment to herself rather than part of the conversation—but Oikawa grabs onto it nonetheless. “I know a few Shigerus myself,” the brunette says breezily, thinking primarily of Yahaba. “Seems like a decently popular name~”

“Yeah, well…” Umeko mutters, annoyed. “This one is the worst.”

Oikawa knows who she’s talking about—based on her frequent use of the nickname “Ass-kai” during her phone call, it’s the sour man who accompanied her to the Interhigh Finals (as _if_ Oikawa could forget that awkward, embarrassing conversation). But he still takes the opportunity to spin the conversation towards the topic he wants, saying, “Is that who is in the picture in (Name)-chan’s room?”

Umeko’s eyes snap to him, surprise reflecting in her stare. “What?”

Oikawa waves his hand nonchalantly, feigning innocence. “You know, the picture of her and someone with a face ripped out. She was staring at it the other day, so I thought maybe things were related…”

It’s not a lie—he _did_ conclude that whatever happened earlier that day probably did indeed have to do with whoever was in that picture. That being said, though, he knows that his attempted transition into the topic isn’t smooth, almost obviously so. But what’s done is done; if it gets Oikawa answers, then that’s all that matters.

Umeko sighs loudly, either not catching the poor transition or just ignoring it entirely. “She _still_ has that? I told her to get rid of it…” The elder (Surname) trails off, growing quiet. Oikawa’s starting to wonder if that’s the end of the conversation when she continues, flat voice ringing through the quiet. “No, that’s Tatsuya.”

That name…

“Tatsuya…” the brunette repeats, frowning. It flows from his lips smoothly and effortlessly, yet it lingers on his tongue unpleasantly, like a bad aftertaste. The name also rings a distant bell somewhere in Oikawa’s mind—he’s definitely heard it before, but from where…? “That… sounds familiar,” he comments, words slow in contemplation.

Umeko’s grin is paper-thin. “Do you know a few Tatsuyas, too?”

“I’m sure I’ve encountered a few in my life,” responds Oikawa. A slight nagging sensation begins to crawl its way through his mind as he tries to recall why the name sounds so familiar. He offers a polite, cordial smile as he says “Though I’m coming up blank, it seems.”

But it doesn’t stay that way for long—for suddenly accusatory eyes, so rich and full of fire, force their way into his mind. There’s a voice, wild and hurt. _“That’s not the—!”_

Oikawa’s lips dip downward.

The bell in his mind tolls twice.

Umeko stares into her coffee, eyes distant. “Well this one you’d for sure know, what with a last name like Q…Q-Quattro—” She stumbles on the word, a syllabic discord.

“Qwa—Quat— _Ku-wa-t-to-ro_ ,” Oikawa tries. The surname doesn’t come as easily as Oikawa hopes, and again he’s struck with another sense of slight distaste. “Is that Spanish?” he queries.

“Close. Italian,” answers Umeko, an impressed hum coming from her lips. “Good job with the pronunciation, though. If it makes you feel better”—it doesn’t—“I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone say it correctly on the first try.” She shrugs. “Most everyone has just called him ‘Tatsuya’ his whole life.”

There’s an implication there. It’s subtle, slight, merely a passing comment—but the brunette takes it anyway, casting a line. “Sounds like you’ve known him for a while,” he quips. The words are easy and light, but Oikawa knows it’s anything but.

The bell tolls thrice.

Umeko doesn’t respond for a long time. Finally, she speaks, the defeated words hanging in the air. “Yeah… he was around for a long time.”

 _Was_.

Suddenly the room is pin-drop silent, a weighted stillness that speaks louder than words. The quietude alarms Oikawa, and as he gazes at the dancer’s expressive face, his own feeling of Disquiet creeps up his spine, wrapping itself around his shoulders in an icy hug. He watches her emotions shimmer and sparkle dully, shifts of reminiscence and melancholy and slight culpability—empathy and sympathy, pity—

The chiming in Oikawa’s mind gets louder, more forceful. It’s almost urgent, like… like warning bells—

 _“That’s not the point_ —”

Tears, dripping from shocked eyes. An angry figure, a _broken_ figure, standing before him, hurting and alone—

Wait a second—

Is it—

“Who is he?”

Again, the words slip out on their own accord. But this time Oikawa doesn’t care what’s exposed, doesn’t care that his tone has taken on a level of seriousness, doesn’t care that his concern is on display.

And Umeko speaks. “He’s (Name)’s former dance partner and ex-boyfriend.”

_“That’s not the point, Tatsuya!”_

The bell tolls one more time, a final ring. The sound echoes hollowly.

Ah.

…

Well…

…

Umeko responds to his silence. “Yeah,” she murmurs. There’s a small smile on her face, but it lacks any pleasantry or good nature—it’s just there, a shell. “It was…” She hesitates, trying to find the words.

Oikawa has them for her. “A bad experience?” he supplies.

The ghost of the smile quickly fills with wryness. “Yeah. A bad experience,” she repeats, though they both know it’s a gross understatement. Umeko runs a finger along the lip of her mug, eyes growing contemplative. “It’s funny—not like _haha_ funny, but just… you know,” she murmurs. “Sometimes even though things happen a while ago—”

“—they can be hard to let go of,” finishes Oikawa. He feels his lips twitching upward at the irony of the situation, the use of these particular words not lost unto him. When Umeko nods softly but doesn’t say anymore, Oikawa decides to push the conversation forward. “What happened?” he asks.

The dancer’s mouth quivers down into a frown, her eyes haunted and saturated with memory. It’s so eerily similar to the looks he’s seen on your face that Oikawa can’t help but shiver slightly. “In order to really understand…” starts Umeko—but then she trails off, words dying on her lips. The setter waits patiently, and your sister sighs softly, shoulders slumping just a bit. She suddenly decides to change routes. “It’s a long story,” she utters. There’s a sense of finality to her words, an attempt to keep Pandora’s Box shut.

But Oikawa wants it open.

“I have time,” he answers, and it’s true. He has time to learn about you—he _wants_ to learn more about you. He wants to understand you.

Umeko slips her gaze to Oikawa and stares for a very long time. Her expression is equal parts cryptic and evaluating, and the scrutiny makes him shift just the slightest. Finally she smiles—this time it is genuine—and then relents, eyes once again growing distant as she begins to unravel the tale of your past. “Tatsuya and (Name)… Where to start,” she murmurs, letting out a small, breathy chuckle. “They’ve been—were—together for a very long time. _Very_ long, as in almost their whole lives… There’s almost a decade of history.”

That’s nearly as long as Iwa-chan’s and his friendship. The setter hums. “That’s a long time,” he murmurs.

“It is,” concedes Umeko. “And all of it was very special.”

“Like Momorin-special?” asks Oikawa. It’s a flippant and light question, but he knows that his face doesn’t reflect the sentiment.

Umeko smiles at the mention of the chipper photographer. “Not quite. Momo-chan has always been and will always be (Name)’s best friend, but Tatsuya… Tatsuya was _different_.” The last word comes out with almost a strange sense of awe, a heavy impact that speaks beyond the simplicity of the statement. Oikawa feels the hairs on his arms bristle.

“(Name) was the type of kid who always kept to herself, always preferred to stick to the sidelines, to hide in the shadows,” Umeko muses softly. “I don’t know why, but she’s always struggled with allowing herself to shine, which is a shame because… well, _everyone_ deserves that chance… but I really think that she has the potential to be a bright star. Sure, I’m biased, but I honestly and truly believe it.” Your sister frowns then, mouth twisting downward.

“But (Name)-chan doesn’t,” says Oikawa, vocalizing the obvious implication lingering in the air.

Umeko pauses for a second before shaking her head. “No, she doesn’t,” she murmurs softly. “She never has… and for a while, that was okay, because there was Tatsuya. The two really relied on one another, clung to each other through thick and thin. She had him, and he had her—and for the two of them in the small world they had created together, that’s all that really mattered. They became each other’s stars.” The elder (Surname) places her cup of coffee on the table before hoisting her legs onto the couch, wrapping her arms around them. She rests her chin on her knees, eyes misty with nostalgia. “As I said, Tatsuya was different. Their bond was strong, special, unbreakable… It almost seemed like he was her soulmate, in a way.”

Oikawa can’t help it—he scoffs. Umeko looks at him curiously, and the setter quickly backtracks; a charming smile slips up onto his face, masking the ridicule and ire and all negative emotions swirling in his chest. “Come now, _oneechan_ —you really believe in that sort of stuff~?” he asks.

Umeko hums in surprise. “You know, Tooru-kun, I thought you’d totally subscribe to that idea.”

Oikawa can see why she’d think that—in fact, many girls have said the same thing to him before. But to believe that your fate is predetermined in any way, out of your control… No, Oikawa doesn’t quite like that. Actually, that’s an understatement: he absolutely hates it, kind of like how he’s starting to hate this conversation more and more.

But he’s not going to say that. So instead he merely smiles again and says wistfully, “I’m full of surprises~”

“So it seems,” responds Umeko. She flits back to the conversation at hand. “Well regardless of what we think, that’s what everyone would call them—soulmates. In fact, I remember there was this one time our moms were joking with each other about it. It was just a superficial chat about the Red Thread of Fate—you know, the whole ‘two people destined to be together have an invisible string binding them together’—but then the next thing you know, Tatsuya and (Name) came walking in with a red string. They had stolen one of my shoelaces,” Umeko says, snorting in amusement. Oikawa doesn’t return the gesture. “It was tied around like three of her fingers, and Tatsuya was just holding it because (Name) hadn’t learnt to tie knots by then… And then Tatsuya went up to his mom and asked if she could tie it for them, because they _were_ soulmates.”

It’s a cute image, filled with the sugary sweet innocence of childhood. Yet Oikawa still finds himself feeling sour.

“It was Tatsuya and (Name)—always Tatsuya and (Name), a pair,” explains Umeko. “You really couldn’t say one’s name without saying the other. And it was like that all throughout childhood. They loved each other the way kids do. But then when puberty hit…” She shrugs.

Oikawa knows where this is going. It’s obvious, after all, given everything that he’s heard so far. To fall in love with the person who knows you best, the person you’re inseparable from, your supposed _soulmate_ (feh)… of course it’s natural to do so. Young love.

He hates it.

The brunette knows he could steer the conversation away easily, his crafty tongue spinning and turning, unraveling a new story or subject—but the only thing he finds he can muster is a very short, very flat “Yeah.”

Umeko then pauses, biting her lip gently. He can see the hesitation rising up again, the internal debate loud and clear even in the thick of silence. But by this point Pandora’s Box is letting out its monsters, demons in the form of private pasts and intimate, doomed relationships. Oikawa is not one to normally regret his actions—sure, there have been things he’s done that he’s not proud of, like almost hitting Tobio-chan in that mad frenzy of panicked insecurity—but he can’t help but feel right now that his subtle yet stern insistence on _finding answers_ might be something that he can honestly, truly say he regrets. This information is potent; it has the potential to shift his opinion of you, to make him see you differently now, pieces falling into place to complete the picture—

But wait, no. That’s what he wanted, right? Months ago he had called it “figuring you out”—but now, although the sentiment still stays the same, it’s shifted into something softer, a bit more fragile. He wants to understand you, _all_ sides of you.

So as Umeko hesitates to close the box, Oikawa yet again stupidly decides to speak up. “And then…” he prompts.

The dancer sighs softly. “Tatsuya’s always been a cute kid,” she murmurs after a while. “But when the hormones started kicking in, he grew to be very handsome. I don’t think he had that Ugly Duckling phase to be honest, which is _really_ not fair to the rest of us—”

Oikawa didn’t have that phase, either. He guesses the two of them are alike, in that way—

_“That’s not the point, Tatsuya!”_

…

…

…

“So when they entered high school, it wasn’t long before he became the center of attention for many,” Umeko continues. “He’s always been charismatic, friendly, and easy-going… add to that looks, and he’s irresistible.”

 _(“Oikawa-kun! I can’t_ believe _I didn’t realize that we went to Kitagawa Daiichi together! How did I not know of you beforehand~?”_

_“Hey—you know Oikawa-san in class 1-4? Isn’t he sooo cut—ohmigod, he just passed us in the hallway! Do you think he heard me?! I’m so embarrassed.”_

_“How is it that a first year is more popular than us third years already… he’s only been here like two months.”)_

_…_

It’s strange—Umeko’s talking about how popular Bad Experience-kun was, but Oikawa honestly cannot recall a single time he had heard of the Italian before this year. He’s not sure why, to be honest; there are only a handful of _hāfu_ students at Seijoh (like Schwartz Natsu in his class—gods, if Umeko thought ‘Quattro’ was bad, she should try ‘Schwartz’), plus one would think that with Tatsuya being so _popular_ and _charming_ and _whatever_ that the other popular people would know him… But no, there’s no recollection. Oikawa doesn’t even know what the guy _looks_ like—well he knows his hand, but that’s it considering you’ve ripped out the rest of Tatsuya in that picture—

A nasty thought suddenly flits into his mind: _maybe you didn’t know of Tatsuya because you were too busy focusing on yourself—_

_  
“Have you thought that maybe, I dunno, you’re just being self-centered? Not everything is about you, you know.”_

_(“Oi, Oikawa! Quit staring at yourself in the mirror; we’re going to be late to class.”_

_“But Iwa-chan, I need to make sure my hair looks good~”)_

_…_

“People flocked to him, gave him gifts, told him how wonderful he was…”

_(“Oikawa-san, I—uh, I was thinking about you during home ec., so I-I thought you might like this…”_

_“Oikawa-kun, you looked_ soooo _cool the other day! You’re going to be a_ shoe-in _for captain next year.”_

 _“T-T-Thank you for the kindness, O-Oikawa-kun! That’s so generous of you!”_ )

…

“Everyone loves validation, everyone loves to be told they’re the best. It’s just human nature to want those things,” Umeko says, shrugging. “But attention and popularity can be addictive. And if you’re not careful, it can consume. Confidence can quickly morph into conceit and egoism—”

_“—you’re just conceited and want people to stroke your ego—”_

( _It would be a lie to say he doesn’t enjoy the attention—his ego certainly loves it—_ )

…

“—personalities can change, morphing people into ideas of what they think others want to see—”

 _“—you put on this—this_ fake _Nice Guy act to get people to like you—”_

( _Oikawa quickly slips his Pleasant Mask back on, smiling easily and wrapping one arm around the girl because_ Yes, yes, of course, my pleasure, anytime~)

…

“—and slowly but surely, you’re transformed into this warped version of yourself; almost as if you’re a completely different person.”

_“That’s not the point, Tatsuya!”_

( _“That’s not the point, Tatsuya!”_ )

…

  
Half a year ago, when Oikawa was still angry and his pride wounded, he was adamant that the _only_ reason he was so bothered by your comments was because they were baseless, accusatory, and out-of-place. That sentiment still rings true today, of course—you had indeed been deceived by first appearances—but now… well… now he allows the full, ugly truth to reveal itself.

Your tirade was not about him, no.

But… but it _could_ have been.

…

“People change all the time,” Umeko continues, pulling Oikawa out of his thoughts. The dancer is staring ahead, face serious. “And that’s okay; change just shows that there’s an impermanence to everything in life. But when the person who is your everything starts to change without you… well, like you said, sometimes it’s hard to let go. It’s scary to do so, because what do you have if your star is suddenly gone? The sky is empty.

“And so (Name) just let it all happen. The gifts, the attention, the doting and the pleasantries… She tried to convince herself that everything was fine. But my sister is not a good actress.” A dry smirk floats up onto Umeko’s face. “I think she likes to think that she’s all mysterious and secretive because she’s really good at avoiding talking about things she doesn’t want to… but she actually wears her heart on her sleeve, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

He has. He’s found that it’s similar to if someone flipped to a random page of a book they hadn’t read before; the words are there, clear as day… but without context, understanding doesn’t come as easy.

But now the context is slowly being revealed, and he hates it.

“So then came the brush-offs from her and the attempts of reassurance from him—you know, the whole ‘nothing is wrong’ and the subsequent ‘I promise you have nothing to worry about,’” Umeko says, sighing. “From what I’ve been told this continued on for months, and with nothing changing from _either_ side, frustration started to kick in. And so they began to argue, and with the arguing came confusion, guilt, defensiveness… And the defensiveness began to change as well, starting to morph into something much more serious… You can see where I’m going.”

 _“_ You’re _my problem! I can’t_ stand _people like you—conceited, manipulative, self-centered users!”_

Yes, Oikawa can.

 _“You do whatever it takes… without_ any _regard or care for_ anyone _else—_ you only think of yourself _—”_

And he—

_“That’s not the point, Tatsuya!”_

…

Umeko scratches at the back of her head. “It… wasn’t an easy time,” she mutters. “(Name) told Mom and Dad that she was just having a hard time with the transition into high school, and I… Well, because I was touring Asia with my dance crew around that time, I wasn’t home as much as I should have been.” Umeko’s voice is quiet but powerful, the guilt in her words thickening the already-tense atmosphere. Oikawa hates it.

“Thankfully sweet Momo-chan noticed,” Umeko continues. “She didn’t know exactly what was happening—she kept asking, but my sister kept brushing it off, saying ‘It’s nothing, don’t worry!’—but Momo-chan is much more observant than she lets on. She saw the changes, saw how (Name) started to look more tired, more unsure of herself…” Umeko pauses for a second, and then murmurs, “She described (Name) as _lost_. And I think it makes sense, don’t you?”

Yes—because as Umeko said before, what do you have when your star is gone? You have a void.

Oikawa hates it.

“Around the beginning of August of that year, my tour ended and I came back to Japan. The day I got home, I was unpacking when Momo-chan came over.” Umeko voice suddenly turns very flat, face dull. “She was there for maybe five minutes before the conversation started turning sour. I don’t remember a lot of what was said, but there is one thing (Name) said that I distinctly remember: ‘Stop asking me so much, _okay_?’ she shouted. ‘There’s _nothing_. It’s all just in my head, Tatsuya just—it’s all just in my head. _Nothing’s happening_. Quit being _paranoid._ ’ And the next thing I know, Momo-chan’s rushing down the stairs and slamming the front door on her way out.”

Oikawa blinks. Momorin—ever-friendly, ever-happy ball of (slightly chaotic) energy Sato Momoko— _upset_? At _you_? The thought feels foreign, almost wrong.

Oikawa hates it.

Umeko snorts at his expression. “Right? That’s exactly how I felt. So because I knew I wasn’t going to get any information from (Name) and I was equally as worried for Momo-chan, I decided to follow her. Turns out she was just on our doorstep,” the dancer says with a small smile, but then it fades at her next words. “‘I don’t know what to do, _neechan_ ,’ she told me, eyes filled with frustrated tears. ‘(Name)-chan’s not telling me anything, I _hate_ when she hides things, I just want to help, I’m not always asking _just_ because I want to know, though I do—’” Umeko huffs, a single, short breath of quick laughter. “That was the conversation where Momo-chan learnt to just let (Name) be until she was ready to talk… And was also the conversation where I realized that (Name)’s comments weren’t actually her own, nor were they actually aimed at Momo-chan.”

That Disquiet feeling comes back again, creeping up and down his spine like icy fingers. It contrasts with the heat that Oikawa feels radiating from his skin. He feels itchy, but also kind of numb, his heart constricts but also pumps wildly… It’s all a strange mix of emotions.

Oikawa hates it.

“And although Momo-chan didn’t understand what was going on, I did,” Umeko continues, mouth set in a hard line. “And I have to admit, at first I didn’t believe it. I had visited home just a few months before in February and everything had seemed so perfect, so right. After all, this was _Tatsuya and (Name)_ —they were two halves of the same whole! Soulmates! This was all just an exaggeration, right? Sure they would grow and change, but they’d do it together, right? They were each other’s stars—certainly Tatsuya hadn’t become his own, right? They were meant to be together… right?”

Umeko looks at Oikawa, eyes serious. And that’s when Oikawa realizes that Umeko doesn’t believe in the idea of soulmates, either. She never had.

“I confronted (Name) later that night,” Umeko murmurs, slipping her gaze back to the wall. “And _God_ , let me tell you—at first it was like pulling teeth. She wouldn’t budge. Kept saying the same thing she was telling Momo-chan: There’s nothing, stop asking, really there’s nothing…” She sighs heavily. “I decided to give up. But as I was leaving her room I thought to leave her with one lasting thought. ‘You deserve better,’ I told her… and that’s when the shell finally cracked.”

Oikawa hates it.

“(Name)’s response is something I will never forget,” says the dancer softly. “She said, ‘I _don’t_.’ It was so angry-sounding… but when she turned to look at me with tears dripping down her face, I realized that the anger was actually just hurt. And she said, ‘It’s my fault.’”

 _It’s my fault_ —

Something snaps.

“Did _he_ tell her that?” Oikawa demands. The words have an obvious bite to them, a sharpness that is unmistakable. His skin feels hot. The world becomes tinged in a pale red.

Oikawa hates it.

“No,” answers Umeko, shaking her head. “He didn’t. Even in this warped, bloated version of himself, Tatsuya wouldn’t say that. He honestly, _legitimately_ loved her—”

So fucking what, like it matters—

“—but that’s what happens with these things,” Umeko finishes. “Seeds of doubt become planted deep inside one’s brain, growing as they’re watered by denials and frustrated statements. Insecure thoughts start to become reality, stoked by unintentional, hurtful words. It was a tragedy.” The dancer seems to shrink as she murmurs, “It was an unintentional tragedy.”

“Doesn’t matter if it was unintentional or not,” mutters Oikawa darkly. “It was still that guy’s fault.”

“Yes, it was,” agrees Umeko. “And that’s something Tatsuya is deeply aware of even to this day.”

It’s cryptic, but Oikawa doesn’t care. In fact, he couldn’t care _less_ about how _Tatsuya_ feels—all he cares about is you, he hates it—

“We talked for hours after that,” the elder (Surname) continues. “It was a hard conversation, a painful conversation, a _frustrating_ conversation… But then the next day (Name) did the one thing I’ve never seen her do before, _ever_ : She stood up for herself. I don’t think she said what was _really_ on her mind—”

No, that happened two years later, when _Oikawa_ became _Tatsuya_ —

“—but the fact that she actually did it needs to be lauded,” Umeko says. There’s a tiny, proud smile on her face. “That girl doesn’t have a lot of courage, but the amount she has—it’s quiet, but fierce.”

Your quiet courage. Oikawa’s seen it before a few times. He thinks about it, thinks about you standing up for yourself, and he keeps thinking about it as he slowly feels his Anger begin to ebb away because you did the right thing—

“So that was it—that was the end of Tatsuya and (Name). The unbreakable Red Thread of Fate had been severed. What’s done is done, and now everything moves forward,” Umeko says.

But her eyes don’t look triumphant, and her words are empty. Because things did not move forward, did they, they jammed—

The Anger flares up again just as the Disquiet runs itself along his arms, the Off feeling coats the air, he hates it—

“That’s what I want to say,” Umeko admits. “But it’s not what happened. It’s wishful thinking… but unfortunately when you don’t have your star anymore—”

Oikawa—

“—when all you’re left with is an inky black sky—”

_Hates—_

“—how can you make a wish?”

_It._

The demons from Pandora’s Box held the puzzle pieces, it seems. They floated about the incomplete puzzle, grinning and cackling as they dropped the pieces into their respective places, filling the Puzzle of You.

Now it’s finished, and now Oikawa looks.

You’re beautiful. But the inside of you is ugly. Because where your heart—your _star_ —should be is a black void.

And he understands.

His palms sting. Oikawa looks down; he’s squeezing his hands together tightly. They are shaking a little. Things are red and black, Angry and Empty.

“But,” Umeko’s voice cuts through, “as I said, people change.”

He looks up. Your sister’s mouth is set into a hard line, but in her eyes there’s light—hope. It slices through the Red of Anger and the Black of Empty, splitting them into two separate pieces, just enough so that the setter can see clearly. “What do you mean?” he asks thickly.

“In the past few months… I’ve noticed a change in my sister,” Umeko says softly, and suddenly a sincere, sweet smile is on her face, enveloping everything in light. “It’s subtle, but she has a spring back in her step. She’s smiling a bit more, and that stupid idiot coach of hers—Shigeru—tells me that she has a little bit of fire back. Instead of one big star, tiny dots are beginning to speckle (Name)’s sky. There aren’t a lot of them, but… they are there nonetheless.” She moves her gaze to Oikawa, eyes intense. “I wonder why that is.”

Oikawa stares at her, and she at him. No one moves. And then, just as he opens his mouth—

“I’m home.”

And everything completely melts away, erased as if it never existed.

Umeko immediately shifts gears. “Welcome home~!” she shouts breezily. The change happens so fluidly and effortlessly that Oikawa startles, thrown off-guard. He doesn’t have enough time to completely recollect himself before you walk into the living room, nose and cheeks tinged pink by the chill outside.

“Sorry, that took longer than I thought it would,” you tell Oikawa, shrugging off your gloves and scarf. You send him a small, apologetic smile, completely and utterly unaware of the very intense conversation that passed mere moments before. Ignorance is bliss, after all. “Did you have to wait too long? I hope _oneesan_ didn’t bother you too much.” You flit your gaze to your sister in warning; in response, Umeko flashes a peace sign.

“A-Ah, no… Don’t worry about it,” Oikawa says, all snarky quips completely evading his mind. He looks at you to give you a flippant grin—hopefully that will mask a bit of the Off—but it turns out to be a huge mistake. Present You is in front of him, but all he can see is the Puzzle of You, You From Two Years Ago, You With the Inky Black Sky—

He sees you frown, eyebrows furrowing.

“(Name), just in time~! I was about to tell Tooru-kun about the time you cried because you were scared of E.T. Weren’t you like ten when that happened—”

Umeko’s teasing blissfully shifts your attention away from him. “First off I was four, thank you—and secondly E.T. is terrifying-looking, even if it’s a heart-warming character and movie—”

“That’s discriminatory. Aliens deserve just as much love as humans, you know~”

“And on that note, goodbye.” You look towards Oikawa again, nodding your head to the stairs. “C’mon—I thought of something that might help with our energy bill on the way here.”

You zip upstairs, not bothering to wait. The setter follows shortly thereafter, trying to clear his thoughts—but his mind is filled with stars of all shapes and sizes, dotting the universe brilliantly.

He hates it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Companion: "Cosmic Love" by Florence + The Machine (big thanks to choerryrumi for introducing me to this song!)
> 
> \---
> 
> So this chapter and the next one were actually meant to be a single chapter, but then I saw the word count and decided to split it into two so you wouldn't be bombarded with a 12k chapter lol. If anything's vague/confusing hopefully it will be expanded upon next chapter.
> 
> Sorry for the slight delay with the update. After hq 402 came out I cried and then ~completely~ reworked the ending for this story, and so I've been spending a bit of time trying to smooth out timelines and tweak things for cohesiveness. Still working on it, so thanks for your patience if chapters don't come out every-other-week like I've been aiming for :)
> 
> I hope everyone is taking good care, both physically and mentally! As always, please excuse the mistakes. I hate this chapter lol but I hope you enjoy. Thanks for reading, and see you in the next one. xoxo
> 
> (P.S. Chapter title inspo - you know who you are ;) thanks for the lovely imagery)


	18. The Road to Coronation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I shall be telling this with a sigh  
>  Somewhere ages and ages hence:  
> Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—  
> I took the one less traveled by,  
> And that has made all the difference_
> 
> – Robert Frost, _The Road Not Taken_

“Did Umeko-oneesan tell you some deep, dark secret about me or something? You’re acting weird—you haven’t even said one snarky comment yet.”

Only ten minutes pass before you speak, voice cutting through the thick silence. Oikawa can’t help but be a little surprised, if not slightly impressed—compared to your normal track record, this was lightning fast.

Your remark is light and breezy, an unsuccessful attempt to quell the heavy tension blanketing the room. When Oikawa looks up he sees you’re gazing at him, face open and candid—but he also catches the undercurrent of wariness, tinges of alarm and subtle hints of concern. He doesn’t know if you know it or not, but your words are easy bait. The brunette could very easily come up with a handful of comebacks, some snarky (there are plenty of things he could say about that E.T. bit) and some not… but right now he finds he’s really not in the mood to play along. So instead he merely sighs softly, murmuring, “ _Maa_ , (Name)-chan~”

You blink, humming in amazement. “Really, no retort? Wow, _oneesan_ must have really told you something bad.” You lean towards him, eyes flashing conspiratorially. “Did she tell you that I was secretly _super_ upset that Momo-chan liked Ushi-kun because _I_ also liked him?”

Oikawa sputters. “(Name)-chaaan~”

“Can you blame me, though? I mean that dead stare and those blunt words are just irresistible, aren’t they—”

Another goading comment. The setter still doesn’t bite, merely sighing again and repeating, “(Name)-chaaaan~”

He can tell you don’t like his response. Your mouth twitches downward into the tiniest of frowns, the small motion making a large change to your affect. Your face puckers like you’ve eaten something sour; the slight humor flickering in your eyes quickly ebbs away like the tide, caution flowing forward in its stead. “I don’t like this you,” you state. It’s not a quip this time around.

Oikawa doesn’t either, if he’s honest. Hesitant and unsettled are not two adjectives that he’d normally use to describe himself, and he’d really like to keep it like that. Yet here he is, feeling not only hesitant and unsettled but also exposed, feeling like you can see right through him. And you can, in a way, despite the fact that you have very little idea of what’s going on. A page of revealing, haphazard words, read with no context.

He hates it.

But of course the setter’s not going to reveal any of that to you. So instead he merely mutters a mellow “You say that about every so-called ‘side’ of me,” the slight prod sounding sharper than intended.

Your frown deepens at his comment. You stare at him for a long time; he matches your gaze for a few moments before flitting his eyes down to his phone, needing to look away as whispers of your Pandora’s Box begin to swirl in his mind again. Finally you speak. “What’s going on?” you ask, words weighted.

He doesn’t want to tell you. He doesn’t want to reveal that he now knows, that he understands. He doesn’t want you to know that he dug around for answers about something that he has absolutely no business knowing. He doesn’t want you to know that he cares more than he should (or wants), doesn’t want you to know that something that happened in _your_ past (not even his own!) is affecting him so. He doesn’t want to admit that he feels sympathy for you, that he feels angry for you. And he _especially_ doesn’t want to admit that he feels irked and offended himself, that he hates all of it, because—

_“That’s not the point, Tatsuya!”_

…

But that being said, he knows that he has no right to withhold the truth from you. So Oikawa tucks away his pride and his internal conflicts, steeling himself as he recollects his thoughts, and then murmurs, “I know.” He forces himself to look at you, lips a tight line. “I know about Tatsuya. _Oneechan_ filled me in.”

It’s obvious by your reaction that his reply is not what you were expecting. Your eyes widen before instantly darkening, something that makes Oikawa’s skin crawl. “Oh,” you say. The word comes out like a strange sigh, a chime saturated by haunted memories. The expression on your face is ambiguous and hard to read, even for the setter. After a moment your eyebrows furrow, and you murmur, “ _Oneesan_ …”

Realizing that he may have unintentionally thrown your sister under the bus, Oikawa hastens to right the situation. “Don’t get angry at her,” he says quickly. “I was the one who asked.” The last half comes out without much thought. He trains his features to be neutral and relaxed despite the fact that his chest tightens uncomfortably at the careless admission.

Your reply comes slow, though it sounds sincere. “I’m… I’m not angry. I’m just… surprised, I guess. Tatsuya…” The crease between your brows becomes deeper as you trail off, shoulders sagging.

The silence thickens as you begin to bury yourself into your thoughts. Oikawa feels your mood shift; that familiar feeling of Off starts to creep into the room, mixing with the tension and making the air all the more stifling. It’s funny how everyone’s Off is different. While the brunette’s own personal feeling of Off is defined by uncertainty, hesitation, and feeling exposed, yours comes in completely different colors—tainted memories, distracted thoughts… and fake pleasantry, designed to divert and cover though neither is very successful.

You haven’t gotten to that last one just yet. But Oikawa sees the way your lips pinch together when your eyes float upwards to that wall of pictures, sees the way that stupid photo makes your eyes flicker with memory. He can pinpoint the exact moment when your emotional walls begin to rise, a strong barrier that threatens to sequester you from him: your face softens with forced geniality, and you give him a minuscule smile that does not reflect anywhere else in your expression. _It’s nothing,_ that smile says. _Just a bad experience, let’s not worry about it._

He doesn’t return the gesture. _It is something,_ his non-smile says. _It’s not just a bad experience, and yes, let’s worry about it whether we want to or not._ But this isn’t something Oikawa can force; it’s not something he wants to force. If you want to feel Off—if you want to distract and hide—then you’re allowed to. It is your inky black sky, after all. It’s yours and yours alone, and he hates it.

But when you once again look up and go through that same painful process—pursed lips, old scars from memories past, fake gestures of _it’s okay_ —Oikawa decides there’s at least one thing he can do. So he stands, making his way to the marred photo of you and Tatsuya. He looks at your bright, sunny face before sweeping his gaze back to you. You look so wilted in comparison, a ghost of the girl in the photograph. “May I?” he queries.

You pause, but eventually your head bobs in slow consent. “Sure,” you say, voice hesitant with confusion.

So Oikawa reaches up, long limbs reaching the picture easily. He flips the frame over and gets to work, pulling the image from its confines. You inhale sharply but he doesn’t challenge it, focusing as his fingers deftly crease and fold and tuck the glossy paper into something new. The whole process only takes a handful of seconds, and when he’s finished Oikawa places the picture back into its frame and up onto the wall.

“There we go,” he says lightly, admiring his masterpiece with a small cathartic smirk. Tatsuya is no longer to been seen, his person now hidden in the folds. All that remains is you with your bright smile and that equally bright trophy. As it should be, Oikawa thinks.

The setter hears you chuckle weakly, the sound clipped but still sweet to his ears. He looks over his shoulder. You’re looking at him with shiny eyes, mouth quivered up into a watery smile. “Where’d you learn that trick?” you ask.

“I once folded Iwa-chan out of a picture to piss him off,” Oikawa lies, giving you a breezy, fake smile. He actually learnt it back in first year, when his ex-girlfriend texted him after they broke up. _‘ur hot but ur also a fake flake,’_ the message read. _‘byeeee.’_ Attached was a photo of a picture they had taken at the amusement park, when they had gone on a double-date with (a very unwilling) Iwaizumi and her (very-in-love-with-Iwaizumi) friend. Oikawa’s ex had folded him entirely out of the snapshot, something that he would have found impressive had he not been so offended. (“ _Me_? A _fake flake_?” he complained to Mattsun, ignoring how the middle blocker laughed. “Insulting.”)

Your eyes become mistier, and for your sake Oikawa pretends to be oblivious. You hesitate for a second before speaking, words soft. “That was taken three years ago, at the Tohoku Dance Regional. We had just won Best Pairs Dance.”

Oikawa suddenly remembers that _oh yeah,_ Umeko _did_ mention you were dance partners. Funny how such an important detail can be so easily overshadowed by the rest of it, what with all that _he became her star_ and _soulmate_ crap. “What a feat. Congrats~” he says, though the sentiment falls flat.

You don’t respond, instead looking up at the modified picture. The tightness in Oikawa’s chest releases when he sees that your face does not pinch or pucker or show any indication that your emotional walls up have completely gone up. They are still guarded and high, of course… but it seems you’re allowing him to still be on the inside as you divulge just a bit of your past. A rare privilege, he recognizes. “That was the best day of my life,” you admit quietly. “I remember it so vividly too, because… well…”

“Because you did it,” Oikawa answers for you, knowing that’s all that needs to be said.

“Yeah. Because we did it,” you respond. The use of ‘ _we_ ’ does not fall on deaf ears.

_“It was Tatsuya and (Name)—always Tatsuya and (Name), a pair.”_

Oikawa hates it.

“It’s so stupid,” you mutter, alluding to the photo. “I should just get rid of it, but…”

“Sometimes it’s hard to let go,” the setter murmurs. You catch the reference, and one side of your mouth curls up weakly into a dry smile. Oikawa thinks that’s going to be the end of the conversation, but you shock him when you continue, voice reminiscent and contemplative.

“I saw Umeko-oneesan win her first major dance competition when she was ten. I had just turned four,” you murmur. That dry smirk turns sweeter with the memory. “Funnily enough, that’s actually my first memory. It’s a bit blurry of course, but I distinctly remember seeing how passionate, how talented, how… _gifted_ she was. She was able to craft magic out of such simple movements, enthralling the audience like some sort of wizard.”

You stand up and make your way to Oikawa’s side, facing the wall of photos. The two of you are wrapped in silence as you stand side-by-side, quietly viewing the gallery of your life. After a moment you raise a finger to point at one picture; it’s of you and Umeko, probably from the very moment you’re talking about. You’re looking up at your sister in awe as she poses with a cheeky grin and peace sign, medal slung around her neck and large trophy—one that’s easily as big as you—resting against her hip.

“She was amazing,” you breathe. “She _is_ amazing. But you can’t expect anything less from a genius.”

_Genius._ Oikawa pinches his lips together, remaining silent.

“After that competition I told my parents that I wanted to start dance. ‘I want to dance like Umeko-oneesan!’ I said. ‘I want to be her!’ Because that’s all I wanted, really—I wanted to be like her. I thought I _could_ ,” you emphasize, smirking dryly. Oikawa needs no further clarification. Your hand comes up again to motion to a new picture. “And instead I was enrolled in a violin program.”

You’re pointing to photograph that he saw a few days ago, where you and Momo are posing with violins. Your best friend is smiling brightly but you look rather sour, mouth turned down into a frown (one, he thinks with a small smirk, that you still do to this day). “Looks fun~” he comments, words tinged with sarcasm.

Oikawa sees the tiny smile that creeps onto your lips. “I mean… I met Momo-chan there, so I can’t really say it was the worst… but it was the worst,” you declare, and Oikawa smirks in response. “As we’ve established, I’m not exactly the most musically-inclined… nor did I really care to be. All I wanted to do was dance. ‘I want to be _oneesan_!’ I kept saying. ‘I want to dance!’ So when I turned five, my parents relented and let me do just that… but in a partner program.”

You gesture to another picture. A small group of young children stands in the bright sun, posing with large grins on their faces. In the background is a building with ‘Miss Nanako’s School of Dance’ boldly emblazoned on the entrance. Oikawa’s eyes scan over the photo, searching. It takes a few moments to find you; when he finally does, he realizes why it took longer than expected. You’re in the very back row, half-obscured by two girls hugging each other tightly. Present, but pushed aside. A wallflower, hidden and thriving in the shadows.

How ironic.

“As I got older, I often wondered why Mom and Dad decided that particular program was the best for me,” you muse softly. “After all, Umeko-oneesan always seemed to be doing solo dance—why couldn’t I? Was I not capable, too? But looking back on it now, I think I understand. When you’re young you don’t really get that some people are just born with that _It Factor,_ you know? I thought I could be just like my sister, but… well… I just didn’t have _It_. I was quiet, shy, scared… I was everything she wasn’t. I was the sidekick. The little sister.”

_“I don’t know why, but she’s always struggled with allowing herself to shine, which is a shame… I really think that she has the potential to be a bright star. I honestly and truly believe it.”_

_“But (Name)-chan doesn’t.”_

_Umeko pauses for a second before shaking her head. “No, she doesn’t. She never has.”_

Oikawa hates it.

“So into pairs I went with my mom’s coworker’s son—Tatsuya,” you say, interrupting his thoughts. You’re still gazing at the picture. Oikawa assumes Bad Experience-kun is in there somewhere as well, but the thought of searching for him makes the setter sour and annoyed. So he opts to stare at you instead, absorbing every minute detail with sharp focus.

“Tatsuya’s family had just moved from Italy a few months prior,” you continue. “His Japanese wasn’t great, and because of it he was really struggling with making friends at school. I was the shy, insecure kid, Tatsuya was the new foreign kid… Our moms thought that we’d be able to support each other.” You take a deep breath, eyes flickering. “And they were right.”

You don’t need to clarify any further—the weight of your words speaks for you. Oikawa suddenly feels a bit chilled. Umeko’s words float back to the surface, filling his mind.

_“The two really relied on one another, clung to each other through thick and thin. She had him, and he had her—and for the two of them in the small world they had created together, that’s all that really mattered. They became each other’s stars.”_

You turn your head to at Oikawa, (color) eyes heavy with emotion. He sees the vulnerability; it’s hard not to. But unlike the past few times, there’s also a sense of anxiety mixed within. At first the brunette doesn’t exactly understand—but when realization hits him a few seconds later, it crashes into him like a wave.

You’re scared. Not because of the contents of your past, not because of the way it affects your present… but because you have deliberately made the choice to share your scars with Oikawa.

To be vulnerable is to be exposed, to place your trust in another human being, to be fragile. It’s a terrifying thing for anyone, really—and for those who normally are so guarded, it’s almost nightmarish. Yet here you are, sharing this tragically intimate moment with him. _Here it is,_ you’re saying. _Here is the raw, the real, the ugly… Here is what’s hidden underneath._

It’s brave. _You’re_ brave. You are fragile, but you are strong. You are quiet, but you are courageous. You are stuck in your past, held underwater… but you are so desperately trying to break free.

Tiny stars are beginning to speckle your sky, Umeko said. And he believes it. He knows that’s a journey only you and you alone can take, but you have so many people who are on your side. Momo, Umeko…

Himself.

So the setter does the only thing he can do for you at this very moment: he holds your gaze, letting you know that he sees you, that he understands. It’s not much… but he is here for you, much like you were there for him after that final, devastating match.

But unlike him, you have made the choice to be vulnerable.

You are braver than him, Oikawa finds.

He doesn’t know how long the moment lasts. But eventually a tiny, grateful smile crinkles onto your face, and the setter finds that it brightens the whole room. You now look up to the photo that Oikawa modified. “Dancing with a partner is a very intimate thing,” you say. “When you are with someone for as long as we were, that person becomes your second half. You know everything about them—you learn their strengths, their weaknesses… your sorrows become their sorrows, their joys become your joys…” You smile softly, sadly. “In the beginning I loved dance just because it was fun. It was my passion, something that brought me happiness… But as time went on, I began to love dance because of _Tatsuya_. He was my everything, you know—even before I fell in love. He was like an anchor: always there for me, a steady presence that I relied on through thick and thin… He was my world.”

Your _star_ in your sky, your _world_ , your _anchor_ in your sea… Gods, is Tatsuya just _everywhere_?

Oikawa really hates it.

“Because of that,” you continue, “when I think of dance, I think of him. My love became my passion, and my passion my love… So when everything came tumbling down, I didn’t just lose Tatsuya—I also lost dance. Gone, just like that. _Poof._ ” Your lips are a thin line. “It’s been two years—two years of feeling aimless, plateaued… really just held down.”

“Anchored,” Oikawa breathes, seeing the connection.

You smile dryly. “Exactly. _Anchored._ But… I don’t want to be—not anymore.”

A chill runs down Oikawa’s spine at the desperation in your words. He swallows the lump in his throat.

Your eyes flit back to Oikawa, and the smile you give him sends another white-hot shock through his body. It’s a miniscule smile, barely visible—but he sees it, and he sees the emotions packed within. He sees the admiration, the inspiration… the _gratitude._

“I am not a genius,” you tell him. The words are simple, a statement of fact. “Dance will not be my career—in fact, I’m probably not even going to continue in university. I am never going to be the best… and that’s okay. Because although I’m just an ordinary person, that doesn’t mean that I still can’t _try._ It doesn’t mean that I can’t try to make the most of my time left; it doesn’t mean that I can’t try to reclaim my passion back. I am not a genius,” you repeat, “but that doesn’t mean that I still have to continue living as a victim of my circumstances. I owe it to myself to try.

“So that’s what I’ve been doing for the past few months—I’ve been trying,” you say, breaking eye contact. You pause, and your next words are wilted. “But of course it’s easier said than done.”

The Art of Trying in the face of adversity is painful, Oikawa knows—after all, he has had years of experience with it. But continuing to try when the future seems bleak, when it all seems fruitless, when the Art of Trying becomes the Fight _to_ Try… Well, that’s its own excruciating journey. The setter is reminded of that conversation the two of you had all those months ago, when you asked him cryptic questions about why he always kept trying, about what drove him forward. Back then he told you that he never questioned if it was all worth it, because back then he hadn’t. All the frustrations, all the losses… Back then it was all worth it.

He remembers the sheer desperation in your eyes when you asked _why._ Back then he didn’t understand.

But now… now he understands, more than you’ll ever know.

Oikawa looks at you, eyes soft.

He really wishes you understood how strong you are.

“I don’t have my passion back,” you murmur. You are staring straight ahead, eyes unfocused. “But just when I thought I had run out of time, something amazing happened: I was offered _more_ of it. I have the chance to keep dancing in January, at a competition we call the Spring Prefectural. There are some… circumstances… that I need to deal with,” you murmur vaguely, “but if I accept, I can keep dancing. I can keep searching for my passion.”

Oikawa doesn’t like the fact that you are being unclear. For a split second he feels the urge to challenge it, but then he reminds himself that vulnerability is not something that can be pushed. He ignores the nagging, sour feeling creeping up into his chest, asking, “So what are you going to do? Will you accept?”

“I… I don’t know,” you answer honestly. Oikawa notices that your hand begins to fiddle with the hem of your sleeve, absent-mindedly pulling at the fabric like you always do when you’re anxious. “I want to take a risk; I want to keep trying. I want to _dance_. But I’m scared. I don’t want to be anchored anymore—but even though I keep trying, I just can’t find my way to the surface. Always just out of reach, never quite making it there. And I think that’s because… Well… I think it’s because I can’t—I don’t know how to—be a dancer without Tatsuya. _We_. It was always _we_.”

You laugh suddenly, caustically. The lack of mirth stabs Oikawa painfully in the chest, and he clutches his fists tightly. “You know, that’s the first time I’ve said it out loud,” you announce. You shake your head, looking down. “Sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”

Oikawa’s response is instantaneous. “Actually, not at all.”

You freeze. Then, very slowly, you look up at him. Your eyes are soft, flickering as you try to read the emotion on his face. You’re not going to be successful, though—even Oikawa himself isn’t even sure how he’s feeling. “Clarify something for me,” he implores. “Is dance a team sport?”

Your eyebrows furrow with confusion. “It can be.”

“It _can_ be, not that it _is_?”

“It can be,” you confirm, mouth twisting downward.

“So you don’t need _Tatsuya_.” The name is spat out almost like a curse, unintentionally venomous. Oikawa finds that he simply does not care at this moment. The crease between your brows deepens; in response, the setter questions, “Am I wrong?”

“No… but it’s more complicated than that,” you murmur. The fiddling of your sleeve becomes a bit more earnest, fingers working insistently. Oikawa’s own fingers twitch in response.

“Why?” he asks. He stares at you, brown orbs intense and heated.

“Because I—” But you cut yourself off, blinking suddenly. Your eyes widen, and that’s when Oikawa knows that you get what he’s trying to say. _Why_ indeed? You try again. “I… I can only do pairs. I don’t know _how_ to be a soloist—”

“Why?”

“I—I don’t _know_ —I just _can’t_ —”

“ _Why_?”

“Stop asking why,” you reply snippily, looking up at him. You look equal parts confused, annoyed, and panicked. You have now successfully worked your sleeve enough that there’s a thread loose, threatening to unravel the seam.

Oikawa’s had enough of it. He reaches over, gently but adamantly laying his hand over yours to get you to stop fidgeting. “But really, _why_ can’t you?” he demands. “I get it—it’s more complex than I think, sure—but what’s stopping you from trying to learn how to be your own dancer? You say you can’t—but have you really found the limits of your abilities?”

Those last words are not his own. No, they are from a man much wiser than Oikawa, spoken at a time when the setter needed to hear them the most, when the Fight to Try became so excruciating that it almost became Failure. But those remarks, coupled with your innocent and clueless comments (“ _Certainly that wasn’t your last game of the year… You’re not_ done _done, right? Seems kind of a waste. It’s only June._ ”), propelled him forward. And now Oikawa hopes his next declarations, inspired by the wisdom he obtained from his idol’s speech, will help propel _you_ forward. Because you are stronger and braver than you realize, and Oikawa wants nothing more than to see you keep Fighting.

“ _That guy_ shouldn’t be able to dictate what you can and can’t do,” the setter starts, voice stern. “Actually, it’s not a shouldn’t—it’s a _can’t._ _He_ can’t, because _you_ are not limited to the capabilities of others. Your value—your _worth_ —is your own. Don’t let yourself be defined according to others around you. You’re a fool if you let that happen.”

_“Those who're "naturally talented" than you or possess something which surpasses your abilities have been on a different level all along. It's foolish to devote all of your time and energy to bemoaning the fact that it's impossible to overcome,"_ Oikawa was told, and it’s true. Comparing yourself to the _geniuses_ , letting yourself be defined by others… It’s all foolish.

The brunette’s eyes bore into own wide ones. “You said ‘always _we_.’ But no—it’s _you_ , and it’s always been _you_. Sure, Tatsuya was your anchor, but _you_ are the captain of your ship. You’re in charge, (Name)-chan… Only you. And I get that’s it scary to take a risk. Sometimes the road less traveled can look daunting and challenging, risky to the point where you don’t know if you should take it… I promise you that I understand. But isn’t that better than always wondering _what if_?”

Trying is absolutely one of the hardest things to do in life. It’s so much easier to give up, to move on when things go south—and that’s completely okay to do. Everyone should have the right to do what they want; everyone should be the captain of their own ships. But sometimes playing it safe means that you risk always having these _what if_ s and _if only_ s swirling in your head… And Oikawa knows that you don’t want that. He can see the truth in your eyes; the fear cannot completely cloak the desire—the _hunger_ —to try.

That’s what his idol saw in him, too.

_“Rather than despairing and giving up because you’re not a ‘genius’…”_

“I don’t think you should give up,” Oikawa murmurs, voice softening a bit.

_“…believe your strength is not limited to this…”_

“You are not limited to all of this. You are not limited to _him_. What is it that you want to do? Because you’re capable. You’re good enough. You’re worthy. What is it that you want to do?”

_“…and continue on the path straight ahead of you.”_

“Paths will open up for you,” Oikawa says. “So continue straight ahead, (Name)-chan. Continue to move forward.”

It’s a simple statement, but it’s also his wish for you—a wish that you will continue to speckle your sky with an array of stars, filling the large gap that Tatsuya left behind. You won’t understand what he really means right now, but that’s okay. Maybe one day you’ll reflect back on this moment, maybe one day you’ll get it. But for now all he can do is have hope for both of you.

Oikawa gently pulls his hand away from yours, and it’s then that he realizes you’ve gone completely still. You’re looking at him with wide, saucer-like eyes, the shock clearly evident on your face. Your mouth is slack, slightly open in your astonishment—but then when you close it, your lips begin to visibly warble, a quivering that you cannot contain. The brunette suddenly feels panic course through him. Was he too stern, maybe too harsh? Or perhaps he was too demanding, but he was just trying to—

You begin to giggle. And then the chuckle turns into a quiet but powerful laugh, a sound that completely erases any thought from Oikawa’s mind. Tiny tears begin to pool at the edges of your eyes, a few slipping down your face—but there’s a brilliant smile on your lips, one unlike he’s ever seen before. He finds it suddenly a bit hard to breathe.

You speak, and Oikawa finds himself automatically drawn in. “I’ve been a fool, huh?” you ask him, grinning. “That’s a jerk thing of you say.”

The setter blinks once, twice—but then he smiles genuinely, feeling the way it warms him to the core. “You choose that of all things to focus on?” he queries.

You laugh again. It’s not a proper response, but it still gives him a slight sense of peace regardless.

For now… things are okay.

(But, as expected, the peace is temporary.

Oikawa doesn’t stay much longer after your very heavy conversation. Although the ending ends up leaving a sense of hope in his stomach, he finds that the air still feels unsettled, a bit shaky. It’s not necessarily a bad thing, though; the kind of realization you had (or Oikawa _hopes_ you had) takes time to process and absorb. He thinks you understand this, too—for although you make some quips about the (lack of) project productivity today, you let him go with no real complaints or objections.

The brunette does his own processing on the way home, trying to unravel a very revealing night. He becomes sourer the more he thinks about it, feeling that same ire from before bubbling up in his chest. The very idea of Tatsuya pisses Oikawa off more than he thinks reasonable, and thinking of the scared vulnerability in your eyes as you disclosed your past just riles the anger up further. It wedges itself in his heart and refuses to budge, adding to the complex tapestry of emotions swirling deep within. He begins to pick apart everything now that he’s alone: there’s the aforementioned anger, linked with a deep empathy; there’s a feeling of comradery, of kinship… but there are also others hidden in the seams, uglier emotions that bother him to his core. There’s pity, judgment, hostility, resentment… spite, j—

Oikawa kicks at a stray rock, scowling. “Dammit,” he mutters.

His thoughts, although quieting the longer he’s out in the cold, never stop. Oikawa finds himself constantly returning to one thing in particular, something that circulates in his head much like those warning bells from before.

_“There are some… circumstances… that I need to deal with,”_ you said.

It was vague, yes—but as Oikawa thinks about it more, he realizes that there are enough context clues to make an educated guess on what these _circumstances_ are.

_“That’s not the point, Tatsuya!”_

…

And if he’s correct, then that’s easily the worst thing about this whole entire night.

_“That’s not the—”_

Oikawa hates it.)

* * *

After Oikawa leaves, you meander to the lounge to find Umeko. Your sister takes one look at your face and immediately turns to shut off the TV, focusing all of her attention on you with a hesitant smile that speaks volumes. You know she knows—of course she does. And you also know that you have every right to be angry with her for detailing your past to your partner, revealing a complicated web of inner demons that have been tucked away far too long… but instead of ire, all you feel is calm… peace.

It’s strange… but… familiar.

Chains rattle.

Umeko stays silent as you slowly begin to articulate your desperate thoughts and hopes, patiently waiting as your concerns and worries, long kept secret, begin to unravel and tumble out into the universe. She does not push or prod for answers, merely listening with a quiet understanding that very few have. It’s the second time tonight that you find yourself exposed, heart bleeding for all to see. Being vulnerable—showing your scars—has been something you have always feared… but tonight you took a risk, and both times your fragility has been received with a shocking amount of concern and care, silent but powerful promises of safekeeping.

It’s strange… but… comfortable.

Chains rattle.

You tell your sister about Oikawa. Again she doesn’t say anything, but you catch the tiny, relieved smile that plasters itself onto her face, the grin growing wider the more you relay his wise, powerful words. “Well, what do you want to do?” she queries softly.

_“What is it that you want to do?”_

You hadn’t been able to answer him, too shocked to articulate any cohesive thought. But now… well, now you have an answer, a truth that can finally be spoken into the world:

“I… I want to keep dancing.”

You know it’s not that simple, of course. After all, what about entrance exams? What about _Tatsuya_? Are you really prepared? Can you really do it, maybe it’s best to just be safe, _yeah you want to try but let’s be realistic, the road ahead isn’t meant for someone like you, you can’t really do it why bother just be safe (Name) don’t—_

_“Sometimes the road less traveled can look daunting and challenging, risky to the point where you don’t know if you should take it… But isn’t that better than always wondering_ what if _?”_

…

It is, isn’t it?

You don’t want any more _what if_ s.

_“Have you really found the limits of your abilities?”_

_“You are not limited to all of this. You are not limited to him. What is it that you want to do? Because you’re capable. You’re good enough. You’re worthy. What is it that you want to do?”_

…

What do you want to do?

You want to keep dancing—

_“You said ‘always_ we. _’ But no—it’s_ you, _and it’s always been_ you. _Sure, Tatsuya was your anchor, but_ you _are the captain of your ship.”_

…

What do you want to do?

You want to keep dancing…

_“You’re in charge, (Name)-chan… Only you.”_

…and… you want to keep dancing for yourself.

Chains rattle.

When you tell Umeko what you want—what you _really_ want—she smiles, but it’s hesitant. She carefully tells you that Coach Takai won’t go for it, he will say you’re not ready, he won’t let you dance for yourself right now. And you know she’s right, but you don’t want her to be. “There must be something,” you murmur in response. You want to continue forward… surely there’s a way.

Your sister is quiet, eyebrows furrowed deep in thought. But then suddenly she blinks, eyes lighting up like the sun. “I have an idea,” she whispers in realization.

And she tells you.

A path unfolds before your very eyes.

_“Paths will open up for you. So continue straight ahead, (Name)-chan.”_

Chains rattle.

Your response is immediate. “Yes,” you whisper. “That’s it.”

Umeko looks at you for a very long time, eyes flickering and evaluating, swirling with equal mix worry and marvel. “You _do_ know that this could potentially be the most foolish thing you’ve ever done, right?” she asks you.

You do. Her plan is shaky, risky, and borderline reckless. It’s inane, a gamble, and honestly for you to follow through doesn’t make any sense at all.

But a new path has opened, and you want to take it.

No more _what if_ s, _if what_ s.

_“Continue to move forward.”_

“I’m done being a fool,” you say, smiling. And that smile just gets wider— _freer_ —when you think of Oikawa’s stern yet earnest gaze, his hand lightly pressed against yours, the sincerity in his words as he spoke.

You’re suddenly thrown into the couch cushions when Umeko slams into you, arms wrapped around your shoulders as she squeezes you tightly, proudly.

And you laugh, hugging her back just as fiercely.

The road less traveled is daunting. It’s challenging, scary, risky… It’s not clear, it’s winding, and who knows what will be at the end.

But you want to take it—you _will_ take it.

And that will make all the difference.

* * *

Despite the fact that the Takai Apothecary and General Store is only a short walk from your house, over the past year you have found yourself avoiding it altogether. It’s something entirely subconscious that you only just realized—a few weeks prior, your mom sent you to buy _mitsuba_ for a dish, and she questioned why you were going into the city (“Eh, (Name)-chan, why not just go to the Takai’s store down the road? It’s much quicker, plus they grow and sell their own herbs and vegetables; it’s so much better than store-bought!”)—but it makes sense, in a weird way. Months of constant nagging and chiding makes it so that Coach Takai is not necessarily someone who you’d choose to spend more time with than necessary, and you’re sure the feeling is mutual.

But the next day after school you find yourself walking through the store’s glass doors, your newfound conviction propelling you forward.

At first Takai doesn’t realize it’s you. When the entrance bell rings, he starts to offer a bored-sounding “Welcome,” not looking up from the cash register—but the word quickly dies from his lips when his gaze locks onto your form. His eyes widen just the slightest in surprise before he smirks, crossing his arms over his chest. “Didn’t expect you to be here,” he comments, adding. “You look worse for wear.”

He’s not wrong—you are exhausted. You and Umeko talked late into the night, hushed whispers of woven tales and quiet reflection morphing into excited chatter and eager talk about how to pave the path forward. The birds had begun to sing by the time your head met your pillow, and you were lucky if you manage to snag four hours of sleep—but right now you don’t really care about all that, instead intent on focusing on the looming task ahead. “Can we talk?” you ask. It’s polite but earnest, and the sentiment is reflected in your gaze.

Takai stares at you for a moment before huffing. He nonchalantly waves at you to follow, head to the backroom. After yelling up some stairs for someone named Chieko to cover upfront (“My good-for-nothing sister and I live upstai—quit watching TV and actually _contribute_ to the family business!” he shouts when a muffled complaint comes from above, though you’re too focused on wondering where you’ve heard that name before), he takes you out back. You barely get time to admire the expansive garden laid out in front of you before Takai shoves an empty basket into your hands with a no-nonsense “Use this to hold what you pick,” making it very clear that his time is not free. You set about picking various things in the garden, feeling completely clueless as to what you’re doing.

Focused silence wraps around the two of you as you work, but very quickly is the quietude broken when Takai says, “Your sister filled me in on what happened with Tatsuya.” He’s gazing at you with a neutral expression, eyes sharp. There’s no apology, no expression of remorse—but you can tell that he now understands, and that’s enough for you. He plucks at some spinach leaves, quietly asking, “What do you want to do?”

_“What is it that you want to do?”_

You breathe in, and you breathe out.

And you tell him.

No more _what if_ s, no more _if only_ s.

Takai's answer is immediate. “Absolutely not,” he says. He stands up straight, looking at you with a frown.

But you knew what he was going to say; you had been steeling yourself for this moment since last night. You stand up yourself as well, fixing him with an unwavering gaze even though you’re shaking on the inside. “Then I don’t want to perform,” you tell him boldly, “and I will have wasted my raw talent.”

Takai doesn’t like the fact that you’ve used his words against him. His mouth pinches down into a harsh frown, and he stares at you with a gaze as intense as a thousand suns—but you hold your ground, hands clenched tight enough that your knuckles are white. Your heart pounds loudly in its cage, nervously fluttering at your daring words; still you refuse to bend, staring at him with nervous, but steady, conviction.

There’s a thick, pregnant pause. Finally Takai speaks. “I can’t let you,” he murmurs lowly. The words are harsh, but there’s a surprising amount of softness, too. His eyes begin to lose a bit of their severity, and for a split second you catch a whisper of the disappointment peeking through all of the intensity. “You know you won’t be ready by then,” he adds.

_By then._

And that’s when you strike.

“I know I won’t be,” you say, “but in February—”

Takai listens quietly as you detail your plan, carefully crafted with Umeko last night. He listens as you explain what you want, as you speak with a conviction that tugs at those chains, as you let your desires seep into every word, every sentiment ringing with the raw desire to keep trying. He listens, and he hears you loud and clear—because when you’re done talking, the smirk on his face is nothing short of impressed, spreading across his handsome face darkly. “Umeko told you about that one, huh?” he questions. He shakes his head lightly when you nod, a caustic and short laugh bubbling up in his throat. “You _do_ understand this is all throughout exam season, right?”

“I know.”

“And you _do_ realize that if you don’t play your cards right, your actions could have severe consequences?”

“I know...”

“And you _do_ know that you need your school advisor’s permission for this, right? How do you know Yagi-sensei will approve?”

“I… I know,” you say yet again. Takai’s rapid-fire questioning is nerve-wracking, unsettling. Your fingers automatically twitch to start fiddling with your sleeve’s hem—but suddenly you remember Oikawa’s hand on yours, his warm fingers wrapping securely around your own. It was such a simple gesture, nothing extraordinary about it whatsoever—but it spoke volumes. _Stop,_ it said, _you’re fine. You don’t need to be anxious; you don’t need to be insecure._

_You’re capable. You’re good enough. You’re worthy._

_I believe in you, so believe in yourself._

Your fingers become slack, hands going back to your sides. You look at your coach. “I know,” you repeat. “But Yagi-sensei will listen to you. He believes in you… and if you believe in me, Coach, well…”

Takai doesn’t respond immediately. He stares at you with heavy contemplation, dark eyes difficult to read. Finally he speaks, voice barely above a whisper. “And you?” he asks. “Do you believe in yourself?”

Fully? No. Not even close.

But you’ll keep trying… and, slowly but surely, you’ll get there.

_I believe in you, so believe in yourself._

Suddenly you’re overcome with emotion. You bow low. “Please, Coach Takai,” you say, voice raw. “Please let me keep dancing. I’ll work with Tatsuya for the Spring Prefectural, but in February… Please let me dance for myself. Let me continue to move forward for myself.”

_“Paths will open up for you. So continue straight ahead, (Name)-chan. Continue to move forward.”_

_“What is it that you want to do?”_

“I want to keep dancing,” you say. “I want to take the risk. I get that it’s crazy, rash, ill-advised… But I want to keep dancing. I want to keep _trying_.” You bow lower. “I… I can do it. So please… let me continue to move forward. _Please_.”

You’re met with dead silence. Still you do not pull up from your bow, willing your coach to understand, to acknowledge, to accept. A chilly wind blows past, slamming into your bare legs and sending chills up your spine like icy fingers. Still you do not move.

Suddenly Takai _hmph_ s loudly, the noise followed by the flickering sound of a lighter. You look up, craning your head; Takai is leaning against the porch, gazing at you coolly—but he looks pleased, something that shocks you to your core. “You (Surname)s are annoying,” he tells you, though his tone doesn’t reflect the sentiment. He takes a long drag of his cigarette, sighing contentedly, and then fixes his gaze on you again. You slowly pull up from your bow, clasping your hands together tightly to stop the shaking.

“Fine,” Takai says simply.

The word slams into you like a current—but instead of being pulled further under, this time you’re lifted up, up up up, closer to the surface, the chains of your anchor struggling to hold on. You stare at Takai, eyes wide; suddenly you’ve forgotten how to breathe. “R…Really?” you ask.

Takai waves his hand at you as if annoyed, but that grin still stays intact on his face. “It’s a little insane, but there’s a fine line between brilliance and insanity. I guess only time will tell where you ultimately land.” He pauses, tapping some ashes off his cigarette. “If you perform with Tatsuya in the Spring Prefectural, in February you can… _dance for yourself_ , as you put it. That way _neither_ of your raw talents will be wasted.” The words, though harsh-sounding, yet again lack any substance.

You can’t help it—a wide grin breaks up onto your face, a beaming smile that shines as bright as a star. You bow low again, though you’re back up almost instantaneously. “Thank you, Coach,” you whisper, voice brimming with gratitude.

You swear Takai’s eyes flicker with soft amusement, but his quickly sobers up with his next words. “That being said, (Surname), be warned—you are choosing a challenging path. If at any time I don’t think you can handle all of it, I have the reserve the right to revoke my permission. Understood?”

You know you’re choosing a challenging, reckless path forward. You can almost envision it in your mind; it’s a long and winding road, filled with twists and turns and bumps and holes. The end is nowhere in sight, obscured by the thick tangle of woods. Branches and vines stick out every-which-way, threatening to ensnare you, to drag you down, to keep you anchored to the floor. But at the same time there’s a beauty in the madness of it all. The trees whisper promises of success for those who continue forward; the birds trill their encouragement, love songs to the weary but tenacious traveler. The _what if_ s and _if only_ s are swept up by the wind, dissipating into nothingness.

You know you’re choosing the challenging, reckless path forward.

But…

“I understand,” you whisper, “and I am ready.”

Takai takes a puff of his cigarette. His hand mostly obscures his face, but you swear you see a hint of a smile on his features. “About time,” he tells you. “Not so princessy anymore, huh?”

Your coach gestures to you before you have time to process his words, the impatient flap of his hand a clear indication that he’s had enough of you for the day. He takes the basket of vegetables from your hands and begins to rummage through what you’ve harvested, clearly searching for something in particular. He finally pulls out a small Napa cabbage, looking at its size with a disapproving frown (how were _you_ supposed to know what was good?) before handing it over. “For your trouble,” he says.

You take the vegetable, though you frown. “I don’t like _hakusai,_ ” you murmur. It’s one of Umeko’s favorites, but you’ve never been of its mild—and, in your opinion, borderline nonexistent—flavor.

Takai’s response is a simple “I don’t care.”

* * *

On your way home, you decide to take a small detour to a place you have avoided for the past two years.

The park is strangely quiet today, your quiet footfalls and the shivering of autumn leaves the only sounds keeping you company as you walk along the paved path. It’s a little eerie, but you find that you don’t mind too much—after all, it gives you more time with your memories. And although you normally try to avoid letting your mind wander in the past, today you’re feeling brave—so you allow your mind to wander freely, letting go.

There’s the pavilion where Tatsuya found you crying, where he held your hand as he comforted you in a way only he could. There’s the tree where he told you he loved you. There’s the swing set that you almost fell off of, but he caught you at the last moment—and that’s also where he stared deep into your eyes and kissed you for the first time. There’s the bench the two of you sat at after you graduated middle school, watching the sunset and looking forward to a doomed future.

There’s the place where you had your first argument, right there at the lip of the river. There’s the large rock you were sitting on when you first had the first horrible thought that it was your fault your relationship was failing. There’s the hill overlooking the small lake where you told him you couldn’t take it anymore, where everything shattered. That’s also the same place where you cried over him for the first time… and also the same spot where you realized your passion was absolutely and utterly gone.

Every inch of this park is saturated in echoes of the past. For two years it’s been hard to be here, almost unbearably so. For two years things refused to change; for two years things stayed stagnant, aimless, stuck in limbo. For two years this place, dripping in memory, made you feel exposed, raw, vulnerable.

And now… Well, now you feel next to nothing.

Your feet slow to a stop, and you blink in surprise.

It’s a quiet realization.

But it’s important.

It’s so, so important.

Chains rattle.

You smile. You look up again, ready to continue to move forward—

And that’s when you see him.

He stands feet away from you. His eyes are wide in surprise, the beautiful honey-brown set ablaze by the golden sunlight. “(Name)…” he whispers. He says your name so softly, so hesitantly. The sound is barely a whisper, yet it reaches you all the same.

Your mouth becomes a hard line. “Hi, Tatsuya,” you reply.

No one moves. No one speaks.

Tatsuya looks grim. His mouth twists into an unhappy frown, shoulders slumping as he looks down. It’s funny—he’s roughly Oikawa’s height, yet he looks so small and diminutive, nothing like the boy you used to love. You watch carefully as his mouth opens as if to say something; but nothing comes, the words dying on silent lips. He tries again—and again he’s met with failure, sentences caught up in a dam. So instead the dancer sighs softly, looking dejected; he gives you a small nod and mumbles a quiet “Have a goodnight” as he passes by, obviously intent on leaving you be.

But although his words wouldn’t come, yours do.

“Coach Takai filled me in,” you say softly, turning to look at him. You watch he freezes in place, back still turned away. Your voice floats clear across the gap. “You knew what he wanted to do.”

Tatsuya doesn’t move for a very long time. Finally he turns around very slowly, eyes dark and sullen. “I knew,” he confirms.

“And you agreed.” It’s a statement, not a question.

Tatsuya nods softly, hesitantly. “I did.”

You feel your eyebrows furrow deeply. “That wasn’t your choice to make,” you say quietly.

“I know,” responds Tatsuya. “And I’m sorry. I—” His voice suddenly cracks, voice warbling. He looks up, misty eyes awash with guilt. “I am so sorry for everything,” he whispers.

You suddenly find it hard to breathe.

_I’m sorry._

_I’m sorry._

_I’m sorry._

You’ve waited two years for those words.

Chains rattle.

“I am so sorry, (Name),” Tatsuya repeats, and now the words come tumbling down like a waterfall. “I am so, so sorry. My actions, my words… They haunt me every day—and I deserve it. How I treated _you_ , the person who means the most to me in the world… It’s inexcusable.” His accented voice sounds strangled and worn, full of regret and defeat. His hands are clenched together tightly, knuckles white. “I was dumb, I was selfish, I was immature… I am so _sorry_.

“When we started arguing, I was confused, so full of guilt… I… didn’t know what to do. I wanted you to stay so desperately, but instead…” Tatsuya trails off, looking to the ground. The guilt rolls off of him in waves, coating everything in a thick layer of remorse. He laughs suddenly, humorlessly. “I was a coward—I am _still_ a coward for taking this long to tell you,” he murmurs. “And… I am… I am just sorry.”

_I’m sorry._

It’s a surreal moment—a moment frozen in time, a moment for only you and Tatsuya. Tatsuya, your partner, your better half, your world, your _anchor_ …

_I want it to be about us. Only us. Not you, not me… just us—_

_We did it. We did it—_

_We. Always we, never you and me—_

You stare at Tatsuya, mind numb.

Everything moves slowly as if underwater.

But then suddenly a powerful voice—a familiar and comforting one—rings in your head.

_“You said ‘always we.’ But no—it’s you, and it’s always been you. Sure, Tatsuya was your anchor, but you are the captain of your ship.”_

The water splits in two, revealing the sandy path on the ocean floor.

_“You’re in charge, (Name)-chan… Only you.”_

… That’s right.

And, very slowly, you take a step forward.

“I lost myself two years ago, you know,” you say quietly. You look Tatsuya with an unwavering gaze, eyes calm but strong. “I let you strip me of my confidence, my passion, my pride, my love, my sense of self… I was lost. I am _still_ lost. We parted, and you took all of those things from me. But you left behind these… these _chains_.” You lift your hands slightly, looking down at your palms. “They weigh me down, keeping me anchored. For two long years I’ve been struggling. Two years, Tatsuya.” A strange smile comes up to your lips as you say, “Amazing how time flies, yet things still refuse to change.”

But things are changing now, aren’t they—

_“So continue straight ahead, (Name)-chan. Continue to move forward.”_

Tatsuya tries to speak. “I’m sor—”

“Saying sorry doesn’t change what happened,” you interrupt softly. It might sound harsh, but it’s said simply, factually.

His next words are spoken gently, barely a whisper. “Is there anything I can do?” he asks.

_Is_ there?

You lower your hands and look at Tatsuya— _really_ look at him this time. Here before you stands the living ghost of your past, a whisper of the boy you used to love so fiercely. He looks so small before you, so fragile and worn-down… so…

Lost.

Suddenly you understand.

You’re not the only one who’s been struggling for the past two years.

The realization makes you feel weird, a strange mix of emotions you really can’t discern. Thoughts begin to swirl in your head.

Does it _really_ matter if he’s also suffered? Why should you care? He doesn’t deserve your empathy, it’s his fault after all, does he have the right to even feel bad, saying a simple _sorry_ doesn’t absolve him from anything, how dare he, you’re the one who’s had it worse, saying _sorry_ doesn’t mean automatic forgiveness, does he really think—

He… never asked for forgiveness.

…

_“Continue straight ahead, (Name)-chan.”_

…

You’re tired.

You’ve been tired for two years.

…

_“Continue to move forward.”_

…

In the hands of the culprit, apologizing doesn’t mean much. Apologizing doesn’t change the past. It doesn’t heal deep scars, doesn’t have the capability to suddenly erase dark memories. It doesn’t matter how sincere the sentiment is—at the end of the day, _I’m sorry_ is just a collection of short words, nothing more.

But in the hands of the victim, an apology becomes magical. It suddenly has the capability to offer hope and solace, a promise for a better future. It offers the person the power of choice. It offers a chance to evolve, to blaze a new path… to _move forward._

_“You’re in charge, (Name)-chan… Only you.”_

And that’s what you want to do.

You want to move forward.

“No,” you say. “You can’t do anything. But I… I _can_.”

It’s time.

“Nothing’s changed, everything’s changed,” you whisper. “But regardless, you and I move forward.”

_You and I._

Not we.

No more.

And with that, the chains holding you down snap. Your anchor sinks to the bottom of the ocean, falling farther and farther into darkness and you move closer to the light.

And you—

_“Continue straight ahead, (Name)-chan.”_

—after two long years—

_“You’re in charge… Only you.”_

—you finally feel your fingertips breaking the surface.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Companion: "Canary" by Joy Williams
> 
> \---
> 
> **BONUS**  
>  “Ah, (Name)! Napa cabbage! When did you get a chance to get one? It’s kind of weenie-looking but… oooh, it smells so fresh, like it’s straight from the garden! How exciting, I’ve been craving some cabbage and pork sauté, now I can finally make it—”
> 
> “Coach Takai gave it to me when I went to talk with him, _oneesan_ —”
> 
> Umeko chucks the cabbage into the garbage.
> 
> \---
> 
> I meant to have this out last week but life hit very hard about three weeks ago and I'm just now sorta getting back into the swing of things ahhhhhh i'm so sorry-
> 
> But enough about me! Can I just say I'm so proud of Reader-chan. What a big chapter for her character development. It's still a long journey ahead but... steps forward. I love to see it. And I wonder what's gonna happen in February huh---
> 
> Also, about Oikawa's revamped storyline: I have decided that I will be following what happens in canon. I will update story tags shortly. So for those of you who haven't yet read the manga, please be aware you could ~potentially~ run into spoilers on the way. That being said, I am going to try my absolute best to keep anything remotely spoiler-y as vague as I possibly can so that everyone can continue to read if they want to. :) Thanks for your flexibility and patience! 
> 
> (Also as a note, the above disclaimer won't be super applicable until later in the story (which gives you plenty of time to read the manga ;) ) but just wanted to put it out there now to give everyone a heads up! Also, if you haven't read Haikyuu... please do. You won't regret it. Furudate-sensei is a master storyteller... I bow down.)
> 
> I think that's everything I wanted to say?? Thanks as always for reading, hope you enjoy, and plz excuse the mistakes. :) I hope everyone is doing well and staying healthy. Take care, and see you in the next one! xoxo
> 
> \---
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/airomiii)


	19. Casted Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Some people seemed to get all sunshine, and some all shadow…”_ \- Louisa May Alcott, _Little Women_

The week following the discovery of your newfound courage is a nonstop whirlwind of events. Umeko jumps into action the minute you get home after your encounter with Tatsuya—after you update her on the whole situation, she grabs her keys and starts dragging you to her car to head to her studio, claiming that you all “have _plenty_ of work to do; getting permission is just the start.” Less than twenty-four hours after that, Takai calls you and Tatsuya together for your first official practice back… and then the next day you’re back with Umeko, which is then followed closely thereafter by an impromptu morning practice at school. This continues on for days, leaving you both exhausted and exhilarated, a strange mix of emotions you haven’t felt in literal years.

You working with Tatsuya again garners mixed reactions among your peers. Some, like Fumiko, are indifferent to this recent development. On Monday you’re running by the baseball fields on your way to change after morning practice when you happen to spot her standing near the field bleachers, a lone figure swaddled in a coat and holding two Thermoses in hand. You’re so surprised to see her that you nearly trip on your own feet, something that catches her attention. When she realizes it’s you, she matches your wide-eyed gaze.

“What are you doing here?” you question, because really—why is she here? Fumiko is _never_ early for anything, let alone school. More often than not she comes into homeroom just as the bell rings, narrowly missing being marked as tardy (something she seems completely unbothered by, which you suppose is unsurprising considering her character).

“What are _you_ doing here?” she mimics in response. When you quickly explain the situation to her, she opens her mouth as if to say something—but before she can utter a word, someone calls “(Surname)-san! Fumi-chan!” from across the fields, catching both your attentions. It’s Iwasaki-kun, Fumiko’s partner. You’re still reeling slightly from the very friendly nickname ( _Fumi-chan?_ ) when the genius suddenly begins to nudge you with her elbow as the baseball captain jogs over, the force urgent and strong enough to cause you to move a few steps back. “You should probably hurry to change if you don’t want to be late for class,” she tells you, which is true… but it doesn’t stop you from thinking the whole situation strange even as you trot away.

(You can’t help but smirk when you sneakily look back and catch Fumiko handing Iwasaki that second Thermos, making a mental note to gossip with Momo when you see her next. That, and you need to be sure to fill her in about Tatsuya, as you haven’t had a chance to despite everything happening a few days ago.)

Other people, like Minami, seem to be excited about your dance partnership. On Tuesday you’re taking your afternoon break in the courtyard when the blonde comes to stand by your side. “I happened to hear you’ll be working with Tatsuya-kun again,” she says, offering you a genuine smile. “Looking forward to seeing you in a main role again.”

“Ah, thanks…” you respond, a bit confused. Not at the fact she knows, of course—she still has many friends remaining in Club, so it’s no surprise that she’s kept in the loop of things even post-retirement—but more at her strange comment. You decide to brush it off, however, switching the subject slightly. “And thanks for covering for me a few weeks ago,” you murmur with a tiny bow. You know she’ll know what you’re talking about—after all, it’s not every day that you make such a dramatic exit (to run after a bus in order to see her ex-boyfriend play his last volleyball match of his high school career… but the dancer doesn’t need to know that).

“Anytime,” responds Minami, patting you gently on the shoulder.

(The blonde’s smile gets a bit sheepish when you ask her what excuse she gave Takai after you ran off. “I… uh… Well, I got flustered when he started glaring at me—I know you know how it is, (Name)-san—and… well, I said the first thing that came to mind, which is you had to go to the bathroom because you were having stomach problems after eating something strange—”

Oh God. Well, that would possibly explain why Takai didn’t yell at you after the fact; you’re unsurprised that he’d want to discuss _bathroom issues_ with you. Makes for a funny story, though. You’ll have to tell Momo when you talk to her about dance, because you still haven’t had the chance to—)

Those of your friends who do know your history with Tatsuya, like Haruto, seem a little bit more reserved about your decision. On Wednesday after school you bump into him at the shoe cupboard. He invites you to go grab a coffee; as much as you wish you could, you have to decline, explaining that you have dance practice. Your former partner looks at you in surprise, eyes becoming half-lidded in suspicion as you very quickly give him a rundown of what’s happened. You can practically see his thoughts flitting across his eyes—so in response you nudge him lightly, flashing a small grin. “You offering to come out of retirement, then?” you quip.

Haruto immediately wrinkles his nose, shutting the door to his assigned cubby with a resolute _clack_. “When I told Coach ‘goodbye forever’ I meant it. I’ll have to pass—so very sorry,” he tells you, though you know he’s not. He grins at you crookedly when you tell him such, admitting, “You’re right; I’m not sorry in the slightest.”

“Maybe you should have been in Drama Club, Haruto-kun. So dramatic,” you say, chuckling when he rolls his eyes.

“Another hard pass, thanks.”

(You watch Haruto as he leaves, frowning a bit as you think about the heavy uncertainty that was flickering in his eyes. You understand completely where it’s coming from, naturally—after all, your friend is one of the few people who recognizes the heavy significance behind this seemingly innocent partnership. And for a split second you feel his doubt begin to seep into your skin— _are you sure this is the right choice, (Name)—_

But then you feel the ghost of Oikawa’s hand on your own, remembering the silent promise spoken when he squeezed your fingers softly but securely.

Your hand twitches with the welcomed memory. And then you smile, walking to the clubroom with the shadows of doubt fading into nothingness.

You wonder what Momo will have to say about the whole situation, because by now it’s been well over a week since your first talk with Takai, and you _still_ haven’t—)

Indifference, excitement, reservation—everyone you know has some sort of opinion.

Well, _most_ everyone. Because there are still some people whom you just cannot read.

And by some people, you mean one person.

Unlike with the others, you do not tell Oikawa that you are working with Tatsuya again—not directly, at least. In part it’s because you know he already knows, anyway—although your explanation last week was vague, the setter is nothing if not perceptive—but the other part of your reasoning… well, if you’re honest, it’s just because you don’t really _want_ to admit it to him. It’s a strange thing, really. You’ve tried not to mull about it too much, but the unwanted thoughts swirl about anyway: _it’s because you’re afraid of what he has to say, his opinion matters, but why should it matter he’s just your partner for one more month—really only_ one _more month oh wow—it’s not like he cares why should you care—_

It’s not like the two of you don’t talk about it, though—you do, just in a very indirect way. Like on Thursday, for instance, when Oikawa hijacks your phone to switch the playlist playing softly in the background. He easily dodges as you try to reclaim your device back, smirking when he sees your scowl. “You should really change your password to something less obvious if you don’t want people in your phone,” he says breezily. “Your sense of security is really lacking, you know~”

“Most normal people have the common decency to _not_ snoop,” you grumble, looking at him pointedly. Oikawa merely shrugs nonchalantly in response, fingers tapping at the screen. The music abruptly switches, filling the air with some bright pop tune, and you once again reach for your phone. “Switch it back,” you protest, eyebrows furrowing. “I wanted to listen to that song.”

The setter holds the phone over your head with ease, yet again foiling your attempt to steal it back. “Why? It’s not like it’s not on your playlist—in fact, it’s _literally_ on here three times,” he quips, which is true. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who refuses to listen to anything other than the same set of five songs? If so, that’s bleak, (Name)-chan. You should really broaden your horizons.”

“It’s not _that_ ,” you mutter, rolling your eyes. “I just want to be as familiar with it as possible—need to know my cues for my part of the choreography—”

You suddenly cut yourself off, words hanging in the air. They’re trivial, inconsequential, run-of-the-mill words that really shouldn’t be a big deal, because they’re not… yet you still find yourself hesitating. You look down, casting your eyes off the side as you begin to overthink again— _it’s just dance it’s not like he cares_ _why do you care—_

Something enters your line of vision; it’s your phone. You look up in surprise when you realize Oikawa’s switched it back to your playlist, the song you wanted playing softly from the speakers. The brunette’s face is candid and relaxed, affable—yet his expression is vague, with sharp eyes that reveal nothing. “Makes sense,” he murmurs softly.

(Oikawa switches gears in that typical whiplash fashion of his before you can even mumble a small thank you, unlocking his own phone as he begins to complain about his most recent selfie. “I tried to get the sunset in the background, but now the lighting balance is all messed up,” he says with a dramatic sigh, showing you the aforementioned photo. “You can’t even _see_ my face.”

“Ask Momo-chan to edit it for you,” you say dryly. You’re being facetious, but you also know that she’d actually do it if he asked. You can just picture the scene now, with her flushed face and bright eyes and nervous affirmations of “Y-Yes, Oikawa-kun—of course! It’s still a great photo, though—”

Oikawa sighs, looking at the selfie forlornly. “I don’t think she’d have enough time, though, with that ‘Rising Artists of Miyagi’ thing…”

You blink at his words, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “ ‘Rising Artists of Miyagi’?” you query.

Oikawa looks to you, blinking in surprise as well. “Yeah, you know—the one at Sendai Gallery—”

“I know,” you interrupt. “I’m just surprised _you_ know about it.” The Rising Artist of Miyagi series is an annual exhibition held at the beginning of each new year, designed to—as the name implies—highlight up-and-coming artists from various creative fields. It’s something that Momo is adamant about seeing every year, as photography is one of the mediums displayed. You often join her, though you have to admit that it’s more just to support your friend’s passion than a general interest in the arts.

“It’s not like I’m uncultured,” Oikawa says flatly, looking unimpressed.

“Your words, not mine,” you respond, shrugging noncommittally. “Anyway, what does an exhibition happening in two months’ time have to do with anything?”

Oikawa pauses in surprise, and then: “You don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

“Momorin was asked to participate in it,” he responds simply, looking at you funny. “Did she not tell you?”

_No_ , she hadn’t—and that’s something that makes you feel a bit sour, if you’re honest. You’ll be seeing her tomorrow for your café date, so you make a note to talk with her about it… along with your suspicions about Fumiko, Minami’s very-effective-yet-slightly-embarrassing lie, your conversation with Haruto… and also the very important update regarding Tatsuya, because you _still_ haven’t—

…

Maybe you don’t have a right to feel sour, after all.)

* * *

Just like with the Photo Koshien nomination, Momo does not make a huge deal out of the Rising Artists series when you confront her about it the next day. In typical fashion the brunette merely offers you a wide grin when you sincerely congratulate her, brushing off your compliments with her standard, flippant comments of “I’m just lucky; all I do is press buttons at the right moment” and “Can’t edit core emotion!”

What she _does_ make a big ordeal out of, however, is your news about Tatsuya.

“ _What_?”

The sharp scent of coffee fills the air as Momo nearly drops her latte at your quiet announcement, some of the hot liquid spilling all over your table. As you hasten to clean it up your friend looks at you with wide eyes, expression shocked. She doesn’t even seem to register that her cream-colored sweater is now speckled with renegade drops of coffee. “(Name)-chan, really?” she asserts, placing her cup down in a giant puddle. “When did this happen?”

You hold out a handkerchief to her, something she ignores. “Last week—”

“Where did this happen?”

“At school, I guess—"

“Why did this happen?”

“Momo-chan, your uniform—”

The brunette snatches up the handkerchief though she doesn’t use it. She instead leans forward to stare at you intensely, gray eyes flashing. “And _why_ didn’t you tell me sooner?” she demands.

You understand her shock, you really do—but as her tone begins to become a bit accusatory you find yourself frowning, eyebrows furrowing deeply. “You didn’t tell me about the Rising Artist series,” you shoot back.

Momo frowns herself. “I was _planning_ on it; I just hadn’t gotten around to it—”

“Yeah, well… same with this—”

“But this is _Tatsuya_ , (Name)-chan—”

“The exhibition is just as important, Momo-chan—”

“No, it’s _not_ —this is _Tatsuya_ , _(Name)-chan_ —”

You hold up your hands in a placating gesture, recognizing the losing battle. _Man_ —Momo claims _you’re_ the stubborn one, but that’s the pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it—

But when you look into Momo’s eyes you catch the slight hurt reflecting behind the bewilderment, the sting of being left in the dark regarding something so important. Immediately your cynicism softens into understanding, and you find yourself sighing softly, looking at your friend with a small, sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry,” you say. “Really. I should have said something sooner; it wasn’t my intention to keep it from you for so long.”

The brunette deflates at your words, her own vexation dissipating. She leans back in her chair, beginning to blot the dark stains on her sweater with your handkerchief. “I’m sorry, too,” she mumbles sincerely. “I have no right to get upset that you didn’t tell me something when I did the exact same thing.”

You smile slightly, feeling your friend’s sentiment ringing in your own chest. “Guess we’re just two big hypocrites, huh?”

Momo’s lips quiver upward at that, though she still seems a bit muted. “I suppose—but from now on let’s strive to not be! Let’s tell each other everything immediately, okay?”

“I thought we were already supposed to do that,” you muse, your smile widening. “You know… being best friends and all.”

“Well, yeah… But doesn’t help to have a reminder.” Your best friend suddenly frowns as she looks at her uniform. “Ugh, these aren’t coming out, stupid coffee—hold on, I’ll be back.”

As Momo heads to the bathroom you take the time to clean up the rest of her mess and order you both new coffees. She comes back a few minutes later and although now her vest just looks worse for wear (the coffee stains, still as dark as before, are now accompanied by large spots of water everywhere), you’re happy to see that her affect is back to normal. She gives you a chipper smile when she sees the new latte, cradling it securely in her hands as she says, “Okay—let’s start from the beginning. I want to know the who, what, when, where, the why—”

So you began to relay your transformative tale for the third time that week, though this time with Momo you provide more details: the high and subsequent crash when Coach Takai first talked to you, the juxtaposition of want and fear that warred within you for days (something that you indeed were feeling when you helped her with her portfolio last week—but you don’t tell her that), the liberating feeling of choosing to move forward… You feel the tiny hairs on your arms stand up at that last one, a shiver of triumph running down your spine.

Momo’s eyes are shiny by the time you’re done. Love for your friend courses through your body when you see her reach up to wipe at the corners of her eyes with her sleeve, a smear of wet mascara just adding to the messy state of her uniform. “You’re going to have to get that dry-cleaned, you know,” you say with a soft grin.

Momo smiles back but then quickly sobers, looking at you with a bit of concern. “You know I support you, (Name)-chan… But are you going to be okay? Competing during exam season is risky…”

This is not a new question by any means. You’ve heard it all throughout the week from various sources—from your parents (during one of your family video calls, as they’re overseas again), from some underclassmen in Dance Club (though it’s more that you overhear their whispers), even from Yagi-sensei (who was filled in by Coach Takai already, much to your surprise). And your resolve is still the same as it was when you were first asked: _I know, but I will try_. But you’ve been saving a particular answer just for Momo, one that only she will understand. So in response you reach over to squeeze her hand, quoting, “ ‘Guess it’s an easier decision to make when you have passion. Or if you have something to prove.’ ”

Way back in summertime, when she first spoke those words, you hadn’t understood—hadn’t been able to relate.

But now… well, now it’s a different story.

Momo sniffles, voice warbling. “And Tatsuya?” she asks. “Will you be okay with that, too?”

You decide to answer honestly. “I’d be lying if I said ‘Yes, absolutely’—not because I don’t think I _will_ be, but because I just don’t know right now. Tatsuya… will forever be with me.” You look down at the table, voice soft.

Momo nods, squeezing your hand. “A true love, even if misplaced”—you can’t help but grin, because of course she would say that—“will do that.”

“True love, soulmates… You know I don’t believe in that,” you murmur. “But I do believe in _first love_ , and that… well, that’s a powerful thing. A first love will always have a piece of your heart, one that’s unique, irreplaceable… Really a one-of-a-kind thing. And for me that piece was tied to others—my passion, my pride, my confidence, my sense of self… You know.”

“Yes,” Momo whispers thickly. “I do.”

You smile at your friend, reaching over to dab at her eyes with your sleeve. That same wet glob of mascara now smears itself across your own uniform, but right now you couldn’t care less. “The good news is that those other parts can be salvaged, patched up and mended slowly over time,” you tell her. “But I’m not going to get there if I continue as I have been—aimless, floating about, anchored. If I want to fix it, I need to try—and so that’s what I’ve chosen to do. No more being anchored.

“I’m going to float to the surface, and even though I’ll still be stuck in the middle of an ocean, I’m going to start swimming. I’m going to move forward. Who knows if there will be land,” you say, shrugging. “I don’t know. So it’s not a ‘Yes, absolutely’—but at the same time, it will ab-so- _lute_ -ly be a ‘Forever no’ if I don’t try.”

Momo stares at you. She stares, and stares—and then she begins to sob. Thankfully it’s a relatively quiet and short sob, lasting only mere seconds… but by the time she’s finished, her mascara has all but been wiped away, leaving dark streaks down her cheeks. You quickly hand her your handkerchief again as she starts to wipe her face with her sweater, but by now you suppose there’s really no point—that uniform won’t be useable for the foreseeable future. Good thing it’s Friday.

“(Name)-chan, I know you want to go into international business, but have you considered being an author? That was beautiful,” Momo says, sniffling.

A pair of teasing brown eyes flicker in your mind. “I’ve been told before that writing is probably not in my stars,” you murmur with a dry grin.

“True—your kanji is pretty bad,” Momo supplies, laughing. Her mirth becomes a bit more sentimental when she looks at you with a broad smile, gray eyes shining with pride. “What changed?” she asks, drawing the conversation back.

You look down into your coffee, the same color as those eyes that haven’t left your mind. You think briefly about Oikawa, with all of the stupid quirks and annoying quips—but you also think of the sincerity, the passion, the familiarity and comfort… And you find your dry grin morphing into a soft, grateful smile. “I had a chat with someone very obnoxious, but also surprisingly wise,” you murmur. “Who would have known.”

You’re expecting at least a few further questions— _What did they say? Who was it? What do you mean ‘Who would have known’?_ —but instead you’re met with a soft quietude, one that makes you look up from your drink. Your best friend is still smiling, but now there’s a strange quality to her eyes—not necessarily shadowed, but also not clear, either. “What is it?” you ask.

Momo shakes her head, looking away. She reaches for her latte and begins to sip at it slowly, focusing her attention on the foam at the top. “Nothing.”

“I think you’re lying to me,” you say, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“(Name)-chan, why would I do that?” she says with a small, slightly flat laugh.

Your reservation grows further. You can tell by her tone that whatever’s circling her mind isn’t something she wants to talk about, but still… “Remember, you just said that we’d tell each other everything,” you murmur.

“I did,” she muses, humming, “and didn’t you say that we’re already doing that?”

“Yeah…”

“So don’t worry about it,” Momo concludes, smiling.

Her words are calm and cool, sincere but also surprisingly formidable. Your gut tells you to let it go, and so although you _really_ don’t believe the brunette, you decide that following your instinct (à la Minami’s advice) is the best course of action right now. “Okay,” you say, switching the subject. “So get this, on Monday I saw Fumiko-chan—”

The conversation rolls easily from one topic to the next, and gradually Momo’s mood switches back to normal as you recount your silly stories from this past week. The two of you talk about everything and nothing for hours, and by the time you pay for the afternoon (something your friend protests, but you retort with a “If you won’t let me celebrate your exhibition properly, at least let me pay”) and leave the café, the sun has already dipped below the rolling Miyagi hills, the last rays of sunset whispering their quiet goodnights.

You give your friend a quick hug before turning to part ways, footsteps light after such a nice afternoon—but then Momo calls out to you quietly, causing you to stop and turn around curiously. She looks friendly but hesitant, eyes soft as she smiles at you. “About us telling each other everything… You do that, right?”

You blink at the odd question, frowning a bit. “If this is about Tatsuya, I already said I was sorry—”

“No!” she quickly interrupts, waving her hand placatingly. She gives a nervous laugh. “I just meant in general… Sorry, it’s a weird question. Never mind—”

Now it’s your turn to interrupt. “No—it’s a weird question, sure, but that’s okay.” You don’t really know where it’s coming from, either… but you decide to chalk it up as being an outcome to the slight disagreement from earlier. So you shrug, fixing her with a sincere gaze. “You’re my best friend, Momo-chan; of course I’m going to tell you everything. Or at least I’m going to try, because everything isn’t _really_ everything—like I doubt you really want to know what I eat for breakfast—”

Momo laughs. “Well, duh. Everything isn’t _really_ everything,” she mimics. “But like the important stuff…” She trails off, casting her gaze off to the side.

You grin softly. “We said we weren’t going to be hypocrites, right?”

Momo pauses, but then the smile that blooms up onto her face is nothing short of brilliant. “Yeah.”

* * *

He’s heard this song before, he’s sure of it.

The Seijoh campus is practically a ghost town by the time volleyball practice ends, the late autumn moon casting the buildings in an eerie, ethereal glow. Oikawa blinks at the sound, at first wondering if he’s just hearing things—but no, even after a few seconds the tune continues its muffled hum, lingering in the night air. The setter checks his phone, wondering if his music app turned on like how it does sometimes (the work of aliens, surely). But the only notification on his screen is a text from you reading “ _try again. now you can’t see the sunset ┐(_ _￣～￣)┌_ ,” something that makes him sigh—he’s been trying to fix the lighting on that selfie for over a week and _still_ hasn’t found any success.

So where’s the sound coming from, and why does it sound so familiar? Oikawa looks around, eyebrows furrowing. His footsteps slow to a stop, catching the attention of his friends.

“Oi, Oikawa, c’mon,” Mattsun calls, flapping his hand at the setter. “I haven’t done a workout like that in weeks—I’m really hungry. Don’t be slow.”

The brunette ignores the middle blocker. “You hear that music, right?”

“Yeah, but you sure it’s not just your phone bugging out again?” responds Makki. “You know—the communications from the aliens?”

“Don’t encourage him, Hanamaki…” grumbles Iwa-chan.

Again Oikawa ignores the banter, looking around at the quiet buildings. The others hear it, so it must be coming from nearby… but from where, and again, _why_ does it sound so familiar? The brunette checks his phone one last time to make sure it’s indeed not coming from him—and it’s when he sees your name again that it clicks. This is one of the songs that you listen to all the time! It’s not the one that you’re using to dance with Tatsuya ( _feh_ ), but it’s one that he recognizes nonetheless, having heard it enough times that he’s honestly surprised it took him this long to put two and two together.

So does that mean that you’re here? But why? It’s getting late; patrol will be making their rounds soon. What could you be doing at this hour? Could you be rehearsing…? But isn’t it kind of la—well, no, Oikawa can’t even ask that, considering he’s done plenty a late-night practice before. So maybe you are? So… so does that mean you’re with _Tatsuya_? _Feh_ —

“I don’t know what you’re thinking about, but stop. It’s exhausting to watch,” calls Iwaizumi, frowning.

“Yeah, exactly! C’mon, don’t think—just _do_. Like hurrying up so we can get ramen faster.”

Mattsun’s right; don’t think, just do. So the setter turns towards the music, waving at his friends. “Go ahead without me,” he calls, footsteps propelling him forward. “I’ll catch up in a little bit.”

“You sure, man?” he hears Hanamaki call. “No promises we won’t be done before you show up.”

“Sure, sure,” responds Oikawa. He once again waves nonchalantly at his friends, turning the corner to follow the source of his curiosity. He’s not going to be disappointed in the slightest if it ends up not being you—but if it is, well…

The brunette finds that his steps quicken just the tiniest bit.

(“Seems a bit eager, don’t you think?” queries Hanamaki. “Wonder what’s got him distracted.”

“More importantly, what could be more important than food right now?” asks Matsukawa. “I’m starving.”

Iwaizumi snorts, rolling his eyes slightly. “You’re either always hungry or asleep,” he grumbles at the bushy-browed athlete. The ace turns towards the school’s entrance, nodding for the other two to follow. “Let him go. If he catches up, he catches up.”

“His loss,” states Matsukawa, trailing after Iwaizumi. Hanamaki follows shortly thereafter, and as the trio continue their trek they’re wrapped up in easy banter:

“Iwaizumi, how’s your Budget Project?”

“Shit. Yours?”

“Same. It’s such a pain in the ass.”

“I wish we were in the same class,” sighs Matsukawa. “It’d be so much easier to work with one of you guys.”

“I dunno,” counters Hanamaki with a grin, “working with you would be even more a pain in the ass.”

“Says the biggest pain in the ass of them all.”

“Stop with the lover’s quarrel,” grumbles Iwaizumi.

“Like you have any room to talk—you and Oikawa act like an old, married couple.”

“If I was married to Oikawa, he’d be dead within two months.”

“Don’t you mean _you’d_ be dead…?”

“I said what I said.”

“I dunno, Hanamaki—I’ve always seen it more as Iwaizumi is Oikawa’s mom.”

“If I was Oikawa’s mother, he’d be dead within two months.”

“Don’t you mean—”

“I said what I said.”)

* * *

_Okay—one, two and JUMP! Three, four, side-step five and stride, six and JUMP—no wait—heel, heel lead? Or was it toe heel—dammit—_

_One, two, three and toe, fou—no. One, two, three and ball, four and stride, five and—JUMP—no—damn feet—LEAP—no—_

The music continues on, blissfully unaware of your plight, and you sink to the studio floor with a loud sigh. You scowl at your reflection in the mirror before flopping down to the ground, eyes closed in frustration. This is the first practice on your own without Umeko’s help—and although your sister claimed you’d be fine on your own, it’s becoming very apparent that that’s _not_ the case. You can see her in your mind’s eye, explaining the movements as she goes through them as if they’re nothing. “ _It’s not_ that _bad!_ ” she exclaimed when you began to whine about the difficulty. “ _It’s just some recycled choreography I used when I was your age; you’ll be fine._ ” She merely waved you off when you reminded her that at _your_ age she was touring with the Chrysanthemum Suns (and that a lot of this “recycled choreography” is from one of their dance routines), repeating, “ _You’ll be_ fine _. We learnt this in like a week. You’ll be able to master it no problem._ ”

Yeah, maybe in a few months’ time—something you thankfully do have, but it still doesn’t abate the frustration creeping forth. You throw your arm over your face with another sigh. And this is just the _footwork_ —you’ve yet to even try to incorporate the rest of the body.

“One, two and jump, three, four, side-step…” you mutter to yourself as you remove your arm from your face, still keeping your eyes closed. Shadows dance behind your eyelids as you continue to (try to) recount Umeko’s choreography. “Five and stride, six and jump, heel lead…”

“Seven, eight, nine, ten—”

You startle, eyes flying open at the voice, and are met with a pair of curious eyes staring down at your form. The unexpected presence causes your body to automatically react, heart nearly leaping out of your chest as you ungracefully pull yourself up and instinctually scramble away. It takes less than a second for your brain to catch up, identifying the laughing figure reflected in the mirror—and when you realize who it is, you scowl. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!” you half-shout, voice stern. “You scared me.”

Oikawa grins crookedly at you, eyes humored. “Wow, (Name)-chan~ What grace—color me impressed~”

You glower at Oikawa, something that deepens when he responds with a flippant peace sign—but your annoyance-tinged surprise quickly dissipates into nothingness, replaced by a wash of relief. You thought he was patrol, something which would have been very bad considering you don’t _technically_ have permission to be here. Or you maybe you do, but very indirectly. Very, _very_ indirectly…

(“Sorry (Name), something came up—I can’t help you out tonight,” you sister told you when she came home from class. “But fear not, I have a solution.”

Umeko tossed something in your direction before heading to the kitchen. You caught it easily, blinking at the cold metal pressed into your palm. “Is this to your university’s studio?” you asked, staring at the small key.

“Nope, but it’s to yours!” Umeko announced cheerily, coming back and leaning against the doorframe.

“Like… Seijoh’s?”

“Do you have another studio I don’t know about?” queried the dancer.

You looked at the key again, and it was then that you noticed the tiny “T.S.” written in English on the side in Sharpie. Immediately your eyebrows furrowed together. “Wait… Is this Coach Takai’s?”

“Do you know another T.S.?” Umeko asked, using that same nonchalant tone from before as she looked at her nails.

“ _Oneesan_ ,” you sputtered, “where did you get this? Does—does he know you have it? Did you _steal_ i—”

“ _Relax_ , (Name). I am a law-abiding citizen.”

“That—what—okay, never mind,” you responded, sighing. You looked up at your sister forlornly. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

Umeko blinked, looking at you like you were dumb. “Go practice, obviously. I mean, you don’t _have_ to, but thought since you’re so tightly wound you’d freak out if you took even a _day_ off—”

“That’s mean—”

“But I’m not wrong,” Umeko said with a wide grin. “Like I said, it’s not mandatory or anything, but if you want to still practice, you now can.”

You looked at the key again, biting your lip. You didn’t agree with Umeko—you’re not _that_ tightly wound—but still… “Is Coach Takai okay with it?” you asked, looking up at your sister.

Umeko’s expression was just as convincing as her very obscure answer of “Sure.”)

“What are you doing here?” you ask Oikawa, pulling from your thoughts. When you look at him in the mirror again you suddenly realize that he’s in his athletic gear—not the standard T-shirt and joggers he’s been recently wearing, but his Volleyball Club tracksuit. It’s a bit strange to see him in it, if you’re honest. Strange… but also familiar. Comforting, too, in a weird way.

The setter merely shrugs, stuffing his hands casually in his pockets. “I could ask you the same thing,” he deflects. “A bit too late to have practice, isn’t it?”

“Well you’re here, aren’t you?” you quip. Your words have a slight implication— _And you don’t even have practice anymore_ —but… it just feels wrong to say out loud.

Oikawa hums contemplatively. “Touché. Coach Irihata invited us third years to today’s practice, mostly just to help with the underclassmen’s scrimmage. After practice some of us decided to stay behind to play a few matches, and, well…” Oikawa shrugs as if to say ‘Here we are.’ He nods at your phone, which is hooked up to the studio’s speaker system in the corner. “We were on our way to get ramen when I heard music, so I decided to check it out.”

“Well, surprise. It’s just me.” You pull yourself up quickly to grab your phone, lowering the music’s volume to a more intimate level—if it could be heard from outside, then you’re really lucky it was just Oikawa who found you. Though you would have preferred if no one showed up at all, if you’re honest. _One, two and jump, three, four, side-step—_

“Just you?” queries the setter, humming as he looks around. “Scare everyone else off?”

“With how I’m struggling? Probably,” you snort. You mean it as a joke, but unfortunately the words come out a bit soured, frustration coating your tone. You feel yourself frowning.

There’s a small bout of thick silence as Oikawa absorbs the information you’ve just unwilling revealed. Finally he goes, “It looked fine to me.”

_Three, four, side-step five and stride, six and JUMP—toe, toe heel—heel?—dammit—_

“It…” You sigh, shoulders slumping slightly in defeat. You give him a tiny smile, a mechanical movement. “Sorry. It’s nothing.”

Oikawa hums curiously in response, lapsing in silence again. You’re expecting that to be the end of it, for him to say his goodbyes and leave you to quietly stew in a soup of frustration and discontent… but instead you hear the sound of a bag thumping to the floor. You look up. The brunette is shrugging off his jacket, tossing it haphazardly atop his bag before turning to you. “Okay, so how do you do this thing?” he asks.

You blink in surprise, staring at him in confusion. “Huh?”

“I took precious time out of my very busy schedule to teach you volleyball,” he states simply, rolling his shoulders as he comes closer. “So now you have to return the favor.”

Images of that night saturate your mind: Oikawa’s arms, coated in red from hitting the ball over and over and over; his darkened stare as he tells you it’s not good enough; his quiet yet powerful frustration, the subtle hints of insecurity… But also you remember his smirk as he lightly teased you about your stance; the small smiles of encouragement when you told him you could—you _wanted_ —to keep trying; the carefree shout of “Yahoo, (Name)-chan~! You did it!” when you finally succeeded, no trace of frustration left in his visage.

You understand what he’s trying to do right now.

And… well… You can’t help but feel a bit warm.

But of course you’re not going to say that. “Didn’t you say you were going to get ramen, though?” you ask, tilting your head slightly.

“I told Iwa-chan and the others I’d catch up later,” Oikawa explains. A small grin curls up onto his face when he adds, “Certainly this won’t take hours—are you that bad of a teacher~?”

You frown at that last bit, but otherwise ignore his snark. “I don’t want to hold you up, you know.”

“You’re not. I want to do this.”

It’s such a simple, insignificant statement, nothing important—and yet you feel that warm feeling creeping higher up your neck, warming your whole body. You see Oikawa’s lips pinch together just the slightest, perhaps an unconscious reaction—but even then the motion is vague, undefined. You look at him; he stares back, eyes cool and unconcerned. Revealing nothing that’s carefully hidden within.

And then he breaks the weighted silence, one which was so comfortable and familiar you hadn’t even realized it was there.

“So?” he asks, extending his hand out to you. “Shall we?”

You pause, then reach out to grasp his outstretched hand.

It’s warm and a bit clammy.

You don’t mind.

You find yourself smiling as you murmur a soft “Okay.”

* * *

After switching the music to something a bit more apropos, you lead Oikawa in an easy waltz box step. It’s something that ends up looking at little bit funny due to the height difference (“You sure this is right?” he asks, and when you explain you’re acting as the man in order to lead, he quips, “Roger that, (Name)-kun~”), and although at first the setter fumbles just a bit, he quickly finds his groove and is able to match your strides pretty decently. You can’t help but be pleasantly surprised as the two of you settle into an awkward, yet passable, waltz. But as you think about it more, maybe it’s not so shocking—being as good of a setter as he is, he must have an innate sense of timing and rhythm.

“So is this the kind of dance you normally do?” Oikawa asks after a while. He’s long since stopped watching his feet, now gazing at you with curious eyes.

You shrug. “Not really. I just thought maybe this was a good fit for an absolute beginner; didn’t think you’d be comfortable lifting me up and spinning me around or anything.”

You realize a split-second too late that your words are ammunition for him. Oikawa grins handsomely, eyes sparking with mischief. “True—I feel like I’d eventually drop you because you’re too heavy~”

In response you punch him lightly in the arm, smirking when he whines. “Or maybe you’re just too weak.”

“I’m an athlete, (Name)-chan! Of course I’m not weak.”

“Yet you say you can’t pick m—”

You’re cut off when a pair of strong hands encircle your waist, securing you into place as you’re lifted up into the air with ease. You squawk in surprise, hands immediately flying to Oikawa’s shoulders. The brunette looks up at you with amused eyes, laughing when you begin to squirm. “Let me down!” you shout.

He holds you in the air for just a split second longer before relenting, looking down at you with a satisfied smirk. He keeps his hands on your waist, though his grip has relaxed; you also decide to keep your hands on his shoulders just in case, not trusting the glint in his eyes. “I never said I _couldn’t_ pick you up,” he clarifies smugly. “I just said I’d drop you _eventually_.”

“Technicalities,” you huff, though the small smile creeping onto your face betrays your slight amusement anyway.

Oikawa’s own grin softens just a little bit as he switches the subject. “So educate me. What _do_ you do in dance?”

“Didn’t you date a dancer?” you retort, Minami’s beautiful face floating to mind.

Oikawa shrugs. “She never told me much.”

“Or is it that you didn’t listen?” you supply. You know you’ve hit the nail on the head when now Oikawa huffs himself, eyebrows furrowing defensively.

“It’s not like I didn’t _try_ ,” he emphasizes sheepishly, and you laugh silently to yourself. “It’s just I had a lot on my mind back then. There was the Interhigh coming up, plus I was trying to figure out why you hated me—”

“Are you implying that _I_ was in part responsible for your failed relationship?”

The grin he gives you is nothing short of impish. “You said it, not me.”

You punch him in the arm again, this time just a bit harder than before. Oikawa whines again, pouting.

“Ow~ (Name)-chan, you’re so violent~ I can tell you’ve been hanging around Iwa-chan too much~”

It’s true; you _have_ been spending a bit more time with the spiky-haired athlete—it’s always welcomed, though mostly out of coincidence (like when you occasionally run into him in the hallways and chat for a bit, or even like that one time when you both walked home together after your respective cleaning duties)—but you highly doubt that your friendship has anything to do with it. “Have you ever thought that that’s the only appropriate way to respond to you sometimes?” you quip.

“That’s such an Iwa-chan thing to say! You must have learnt it from him. Also violence is never the answer,” Oikawa claims, feigning piety. You can’t help but roll your eyes. The brunette grins broadly but sobers up quickly, repeating, “But really—what do you do in dance? I want to know.” The look on his face is sincere as he says, “I’m all yours.”

You find yourself smiling, mood becoming a bit more grounded as you decide to answer him seriously. “Honestly, I think a better question is ‘What _don’t_ you do?’ ” you breathe. “Dance is such a broad thing; it encompasses so many genres and styles. Ballet, hip-hop, ballroom, disco, contemporary, traditional… It’s a world of endless possibilities. It’s quite beautiful, too—dance gives someone the opportunity to really express themselves… To reveal what’s hidden inside, in a way.”

Oikawa hums. “Speaking without words, huh?”

“Or with, like in lyrical dance. I’ve always really liked that dance style,” you say fondly. “Words, when crafted by a talented hand, can be very powerful. Some songs don’t have great lyrics, as I’m sure you know… but sometimes you come across pure poetry, a string of words that really just speaks to you. You know, those songs that you just listen to and you’re just like, ‘That’s it’… Almost as if the song was practically made for you.

“I like that lyrical dance gives you a chance to evoke those feelings—not only for the audience, but also yourself. You can use others’ words to express how you’re feeling… In a way I guess it’s still speaking without words, isn’t it?” you muse.

“Sure, if you want to put it like that,” the setter hums, eyes amused but also understanding.

“Well regardless of how we put it, it’s a powerful thing,” you conclude, smiling.

_One, two, three and ball, four and stride, five and—_

“ _It’s not_ that _bad! It’s just some recycled choreography I used when I was your age; you’ll be fine._ ”

_One, two and jump, three, four, side-step—_

_“We learnt this in like a week. You’ll be able to master it no problem._ ”

_One, two and jump, three and ball—_

You feel your smile drying as you murmur, “But of course as nice as that is, you also need to have the talent and technique to back it up, too.” A tired sigh escapes your lips. “I’ve always wondered what it’s like to have it all: passion, raw talent, just an inherent sense of the sport, really… Maybe then I’d be able to master some recycled footwork in a week, huh? But that’s more of _oneesan’s_ territory, I suppose.”

You aren’t bitter—not anymore. Just…

“Geniuses, huh?” Oikawa asks, catching the unspoken words. He doesn’t bother hiding the slight distaste reflecting in his eyes.

You let out another sigh, this time heavier than the last. “Yeah, geniuses.”

“They piss me off.”

You know they do—after all, you used to feel the exact same. It’s been a while, but you remember the feeling nonetheless.  


( _“Who’s the little girl?”_

_“Her? That’s (Surname) Umeko’s sister!”_

_“You mean to tell me there are_ two _(Surname)s that dance? Oh man, that must be a monster family.”_ ) _  
  
_

“You know,” you start up again, “I’ve found it really interesting being related to one—a genius, that is. Everyone assumes—borderline expects—that natural talent runs in bloodlines…”  
  


( _“Did you hear that (Surname) Umeko’s little sister is competing today?”_

_“Ehhh, really?_ Another _(Surname)? Well now we know who’s going to win, I guess...”_ )

_  
_“It doesn’t,” you mutter, voice flat.  
  


( _“You’re (Surname) Umeko’s sister, and you dance like_ that _?”_ )

( _“Hmm… Not to sound mean, but… I… I guess talent isn’t genetic… Oh gods, did I say that too loud? Do you think she heard me?”_ )

“My nickname in dance class used to be Prune-chan, you know,” you tell him, voice dry. “You know—because _Umeko,_ and _ume_ means plum… and prunes, well… Does anyone like prunes over plums?”  
  


_(“Prunes are just plums’ icky, knock-off, not-as-good sisters!”)  
  
_  
“I don’t know about the prune thing,” Oikawa says, words soft, “but I much prefer the nickname ‘Space Princess.’ ”

You give him a small smile before continuing. “Everyone has all of these preconceived notions about who you are and what you can do. And then when you fall short, it’s like… Oh, _that’s_ disappointing.”  
  


_(“But I was very wrong—you’re worse than she is.”)_

_(“You’re (Surname) Umeko’s sister, and you dance like that?”)_

_  
_You smirk humorlessly and then ask something that’s been on your mind for a very long time. “When we live in another’s shadow—is it because that which is cast is too long to crawl out from underneath, or is it because we don’t allow ourselves to leave?”

The words are heavy, weighted. They linger in the air long after they’ve been spoken, coating the room in hues of weariness and reservation and surrender. Oikawa’s gaze on you is both muted and intense, brown eyes flickering with frustration and understanding. “Maybe a little bit of both,” he says lowly, “because _everyone_ includes us, too.”

Yes. All the expectations, the assumptions, the preconceived notions… They do not just stem from outside sources. Sometimes your biggest enemy comes from within, telling you that you _should_ be better than what you are, you _need_ to be—

_“It’s not good enough”_ doesn’t really mean that.

It means “ _I’m_ not good enough.”

And that, you know with full certainty, is something that translates for anyone standing in a casted shadow.

But the good news is that shadows are not infinite.

“Luckily for us ordinary people,” you tell Oikawa, “if we decide we want to see the sun, we get a choice. We can choose to sidestep the shadow, working hard until we achieve other great things—”

“Like getting a full scholarship to a top university,” Oikawa interrupts, looking at you pointedly.

Your lips twitch upward. “Or we can choose to climb, working hard until we’re the ones casting the longest shadow of them all.” Now it’s your turn to look at him deliberately as you say, “Like winning Gold in the 2020 Summer Olympics.”

Oikawa’s smile is warm as he looks down at you. “You do like to say that’s when your volleyball debut will be.”

“I do,” you agree, matching his smile, “but we know which one of us I’m really talking about.”

His grip tightens on your waist. It’s barely perceptible, yet you feel it nonetheless. “Likewise.”

Oikawa Tooru tells you to continue to move forward.

You tell him to continue to climb.

What a lovely combination.

He stares at you, and you stare at him. Soft instrumental music continues to play in the background, but you’ve long stopped dancing.

He stands close, close enough that you feel the heat radiating from his body. You suddenly become aware of every inch of him, every detail: the varying shades of brown in those secretive orbs of his, those thick lashes, the way his fingers press lightly into your skin when your gaze naturally lowers down to his lips—

And suddenly you feel a wash of fear, one that’s powerful enough to break the spell.

“Guess you’ve learnt a lot about me in the past few weeks, huh?” you ask, hands slipping from his shoulders. You try to keep your tone light but your voice comes out strained, tense. The brunette’s lips purse just the slightest as he removes his hands from your waist, stuffing them into his pockets as he takes a step back. You immediately feel the absence of his warmth.

“Looks like it,” he replies. His voice is strangely thick, but when he quickly clears his throat it returns to normal, his tone just as airy and flippant as his remarks. “Guess you’re actually the Onion Princess, huh?”

“And you, the Space Prince? Please,” you say with a light snort. You go to grab your phone, unplugging it as you turn of the speaker system. You’ve had more than enough of tonight.

Oikawa, sensing your intentions, goes to collect his things. “What are you talking about?” he asks, holding your bag out to you as you come join him. “I’m the perfect Space Prince!”

“Hardly,” you mutter with a small smile.

“So rude~” he whines, sighing. He waits as you lock up the studio before pushing you forward by the shoulders, the motion gentle yet slightly insistent. “C’mon, let’s go get ramen; I’m hungry. Your apology for being mean can be in the form of paying.”

“Wha—Hey, _no_!” you sputter, turning to look at him incredulously. “Go find your friends, you moocher—”

There’s a click of a camera. “ _Yay!_ I’ll call this one ‘Free dinner.’ ”

“Ab—Absolutely not!”

No one speaks about what just happened.

* * *

**BONUS**

“Yahoo~ Sorry for the wait~”

Iwaizumi scowls as Oikawa, nearly forty minutes late, _finally_ decides to make an appearance. “Took your sweet time, didn’t you—”

“Iwa-chan, why are you so mad—I told you not to wait up—”

“You’re lucky that Matsukawa eats a lot, you piece—”

“Now now,” Oikawa interrupts, “is that really the way to talk when we have company~?”

The curse immediately dies on Iwaizumi lips when the setter steps to the side, revealing a very sheepish-looking you. You bow slightly, gaze cast to the floor as you murmur, “Please excuse my intrusion.”

“Ah, (Surname)-chan!” greets Matsukawa, offering you a sleepy smile. Hanamaki waves at you, uttering a nonchalant “Don’t mind” as Oikawa turns to grin.

“See, (Name)-chan, I told you they wouldn’t mind. Besides, Makki and Mattsun are probably happy that they can look at something other than Iwa-chan’s ugly face~”

Iwaizumi goes to punch the setter but Matsukawa holds him back. Oikawa’s laugh is lighthearted and breezy as he joins you at the stall to order.

The volleyball trio quietly observe the two of you. Iwaizumi grunts when he overhears Oikawa’s remark of “I’m going to get the most expensive thing~”, something that’s very quickly followed by your exasperated “I _told_ you I’m not paying!”

Hanamaki grins. “Now it all makes sense.”

“I don’t know how she deals with him,” Matsukawa states.

“How do _we_ deal with him?” grumbles Iwaizumi.

“The unanswerable question, really,” answers Hanamaki, shaking his head lightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I have things to say but it's almost 2 AM and I've spent way too many hours with this chapter and it's all over the place just like me lol so i'm just going to say I hope everyone is well and hope you enjoy !! :D take good care, much love to everyone <3


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